


Stone of the North

by Selenay



Series: Dangerous Instruments [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, BAMF Phil Coulson, Background Relationships, Blimps & Dirigibles, Comic Book Science, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor Darcy Lewis/Natasha Romanov, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Mystery, Valet Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: Sequel to Clockwork Murders. The happily ever after isn't always easy, but Coulson and Barton are determined to figure out how to make it work. After all, how difficult can it be to pretend to the world they're still just a gentleman and his valet, settling into a quiet life with no excitement or adventure at all?
More difficult than they anticipated, it turns out. And that's before Stark asks for their help tracking down a missing gem, people start disappearing around London, and Natasha resurfaces with a mission of her own for them. Their quiet life together may feature more dirigibles and explosions than they'd ever counted on.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Illustration to Stone of the North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559277) by [johanirae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/pseuds/johanirae), [Selenay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay). 



> When I wrote Clockwork Murders, I had an idea that I wanted to write a sequel one day, so I seeded a couple of things in there just in case I ever wrote it. And this year, for Marvel Big Bang, it seemed like the right time to finally commit to that sequel, which turned into a much more ambitious story than I ever thought it would when I was throwing those little seeds into Clockwork Murders! It gave me a chance to write dirigibles, adventure, and some more about Phil Coulson the gentleman vigilante and his valet, so it all worked out.
> 
> There are a few Easter Eggs for people who have read other stories in this series, but I tried to make sure you really only need to have read Clockwork Murders to get this one. Hopefully that worked.
> 
> Johanirae has been my artist and inspiration on this. Each illustration I received made me push higher with what I was doing, to give Johan new and fun scenes to bring to life. It's amazing work and I am thrilled to be able to include those illustrations in the story. When I suggested working together on this, I had no idea what a fantastic experience it would be. Thank you!
> 
> If you want the gorgeous hi-res versions of the illustrations, hop over to Tumblr: <http://johanirae.tumblr.com/tagged/marvel-big-bang> and please go over to the AO3 page to leave some feedback.

# 

Chapter One

_London, September 22, 1908_

Phil Coulson watched from just inside the living room as Clint shook hands with the last of their hired men and ushered them out of the front door. With a quiet sigh, Clint leaned back against it, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. His tie and jacket were missing, thrown across a tea chest somewhere, and he'd unfastened the top buttons of his shirt to expose an expanse of throat and upper chest that had been incredibly distracting all afternoon. Sweat glistened in the hollows, and Coulson had been hard-pressed not to stare.

From the confused looks their hired men kept shooting at Clint, valets didn't usually throw off their jackets and help to haul boxes, but then, Clint Barton wasn't the usual kind of valet.

Coulson didn't think he could have fallen in love with someone who fitted the phrase "usual kind of valet". 

Clint half opened one eye. "I can feel you staring, you know."

Coulson stepped into the hallway, but he didn't move any closer. "Just admiring the view."

A lazy smile curved Clint's lips. "At least I'm good for something."

"You're good for a lot more than that. I've never seen anyone organise a remove so efficiently. I thought it would far longer than that."

"Took long enough as it is." Clint opened both eyes. "We used to get an entire circus, including the elephants, on the road in two hours. All that fiddling about with breakables...you're really sure you need all this stuff?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Coulson said. "Even a confirmed bachelor living in a new mansion flat has to keep up appearances, and that includes the ability to host small supper parties if necessary. Supper can't be served without good china."

"That's too bad." Clint looked thoughtful. "It was really the books that took half the time, though. You sure your cousin won't miss them?"

"My cousin will barely notice that he has a library, and he certainly won't read anything in it. The fact that a few books--" Coulson broke off and rethought the sentence before Clint could do more than raise an incredulous eyebrow. "The fact that half the volumes are missing won't trouble him. He's taking possession of the house, not his entire inheritance. The books are still mine, whoever lives in the house."

Clint grinned. "You really love those books, don't you?"

"I didn't realise how much, until I had to choose which ones I kept."

"Half of them aren't even in English so I'll never understand your book love, but I like watching you talk about them." Clint's smile turned lazy, with a hint of something promising lurking behind it that made Coulson's heart speed up. "I like watching you talk about anything you get excited about, you know?"

The tips of Coulson's ears felt too warm, and he had to clear his throat before he spoke. "I didn't know that, no."

"Well, I do."

"I'll keep that in mind for future reference."

"Good." Clint tilted his head. "You know, there's something wrong with this picture."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You're all the way over here," Clint said, "and I'm all the way over here, and this is the first time we've been alone for days. We're wasting valuable time."

Coulson chuckled and began walking towards the door--and Clint--putting a hint of swagger into his stride, just to see the way Clint's eyes darkened and his tongue flickered out to wet his lips. "I would have thought you were too tired."

"For you? Never."

"It was a long day, and you did a lot of heavy lifting."

Clint's smile was filthy. "Turns out, I'm not that tired right now. You should probably take advantage of that."

Coulson stopped just inside arm's reach. "Take advantage?"

"Yeah," Clint said, his voice husky. "Take advantage. Of me. Please."

A step forward, and Coulson was close enough to rest his hands on the door, on either side of Clint's head. He leaned in, feeling the warmth from Clint's body even through his jacket and shirt, and paused with his lips barely brushing Clint's. "You know that I don't expect anything."

"You know that if you keep reminding me, I'm going to get really annoyed one day?"

Coulson smiled and closed the gap, kissing Clint with all the gentle passion he could muster. He felt Clint's sigh against his cheek, heard the eager sound in his throat--

The doorbell rang. Coulson lifted his head, just enough to see Clint's eyes. The frustration there matched his own.

"We could ignore it," Clint said.

The door rattled behind him as a fist pounded against it.

"I don't think we'll get the choice," Coulson said. "It sounds like they might beat the door down if we don't answer."

The door rattled again under another fierce battering, and Coulson reluctantly stepped back, tugging his jacket into place as he went. Clint straightened from his slouch against the door, the lazy sensuality draining away from his face as he returned to his guise of a valet. Even without his jacket and tie, there was a crispness to his movements he'd perfected over the months that told Coulson which part he was playing. Not the eager lover and friend; he was a professional, Coulson's employee, and that role put a distance between them. A necessary one, a distance they had to stick to more rigidly than they had before their relationship changed, but one Coulson hated to feel.

Moving into the mansion flat was supposed to give them a place to be just them without worrying about the rest of the world watching. Coulson had to fight down the temptation to glare at whoever was intruding on their first night alone in far too long.

When Clint opened the door, it was to a huge hamper with shiny black boots poking out from the bottom. Coulson blinked. The hamper lowered, to reveal the liveried head and shoulders of a young man--barely more than a boy, really--peering anxiously at Clint.

"Is this Mr Philip Coulson's residence?" the boy asked.

Clint lifted his chin. "It is now."

A relieved grin brightened the boy's face. "At last. This place is a right warren. I've tried three doors already, and nobody even knew him."

"He's only just moved in," Clint said, his voice warm. One of those "usual valets" would have raised an eyebrow and tried to freeze the boy with a glare for his impertinence. Coulson was relieved all over again that Clint wasn't one of them. "Is that for him?"

The boy nodded. "Best of everything Fortnum's has."

"I didn't know he'd ordered it."

"He didn't." The boy lifted the hamper, and Clint took the hint and relieved him of his burden. Hands finally free, the boy pulled a white envelope out of his pocket. "Some friends of his ordered it. They sent a note."

Clint nodded and the boy put the note on top of the hamper. "I'll make sure he gets it."

"Thank you, sir."

He scampered away as soon as Clint paid him, gangly legs uncoordinated as though he was still growing into them. Clint pushed the door shut with his hip and carried the hamper ceremoniously down the hallway to the kitchen, which was already marked as his domain. Coulson locked up and followed.

Delicious scents wafted from the hamper as Clint opened it, and Coulson's mouth watered as he peered over Clint's shoulder. Jars of chutney and mustard nestled beside a pie that smelled like it was pheasant. Wax paper concealed more delicacies, their shapes indistinct in the parcels. The lid held plates and silver-wear and, when Clint lifted a flap on one side of the hamper, it revealed a bottle of wine.

Coulson lifted out the bottle and raised his eyebrows at the vintage.

"It's good?" Clint said, reaching into the hamper to pull out the pie.

"Very good." Coulson looked around at the boxes still littering the kitchen. "Do we have something to open it with?"

Clint's inventiveness was another side to him that Coulson had grown to love, so despite the lack of corkscrew and glasses--which were all in boxes, somewhere, but the food was too tempting to take the time to hunt for them--they were soon sitting at a clear corner of the table with plates of food and mugs filled with wine.

It was impossible to interpret Clint's expression when he took a gulp of his wine. "It's, uh, nice?"

Coulson sipped his more slowly. "It's better than nice."

"I'll take your word for it. I've always been more of a beer man."

"Wine is an acquired taste," Coulson said, taking another sip. "I hated it the first time I tried it."

Clint grinned. "You? All cultured and refined, and you hated wine? Isn't that blasphemy?"

Coulson rolled his eyes. "I was eight. I thought it was raspberry cordial."

"Yeah, I can see how that would be a surprise." Clint's grin turned mischievous. "Almost like taking a big gulp of moonshine, thinking it's a jug of water."

Coulson winced. "That would have been a shock."

"No kidding. And the hangover the next day was even worse. I was ten and scrawny. Doesn't take much moonshine to get a kid drunk when the most they've had before is a couple of sips of beer."

Chuckling, Coulson reached over to pull the note out from under the pie plate. It was still warm as he tore the envelope open.

_Dear Phil,_

_Welcome to your new home! We thought this might make your first night easier. I know Mr Barton is very capable, but it has been a long day and I am quite sure that stocking the cupboards was low on his list._

_With our Best Wishes,_

_Mr and Mrs Stark_

"This is Pepper's work more than Stark's, I suspect," Coulson said, after reading it out.

"What's it say on the back?" Clint asked, frowning.

Coulson flipped the note. The handwriting was a messy scrawl, as far from Pepper's neat copperplate as possible, and it took Coulson a minute to puzzle it out.

_PS. Please call tomorrow morning, early as possible. Bring your valet. TS._

"An ulterior motive," Clint said. "Wonder what he wants?"

"Knowing him, it could be anything."

Clint held up a forkful of pheasant pie. "If he keeps sending us food like this, there's not much I'll say no to."

"Really?" Coulson tried to replicate the lazy, seductive smile Clint had worn earlier. He didn't think he succeeded, but a spark of interest appeared in Clint's eyes anyway. "So, is there anything you would say no to if I bought you food like this?"

Clint's smile made warmth course through Coulson's body. "Buy some and find out."

***

It was no surprise to Coulson that Clint began to yawn hugely when they were washing the dishes.

"'M fine," Clint mumbled, as Coulson took a plate out of his hand before he dropped it back in the sink. "Give me a minute and I'll be ready to go."

Further protests were cut off by a massive yawn, putting the lie to his words, and Coulson raised one eyebrow. "You don't look fine."

Clint blinked his eyes wider and straightened. "I'm not sleepy. Really."

"Call me old-fashioned," Coulson said, "but I prefer it if my bed partners aren't propping their eyes open with matchsticks when we're trying to have sex."

"Give me five minutes and a cup of coffee," Clint said, before unsuccessfully trying to hide another yawn behind his sudsy hand. "I just need to catch my second wind."

He'd been up since dawn every day that week, hurrying about all day while he prepared the flat and arranged for the transfer of belongings, and he'd rarely been in bed before midnight. On top of that, Coulson had been obliged to go out as masked vigilante twice, and Clint had insisted on accompanying him both times. It made Coulson feel exhausted just thinking about everything he'd done.

"You had your second wind hours ago," Coulson said. "Your third and fourth, too. I don't think there's enough wind in the world to keep you going now."

"But sir!" Clint bit his lip. "Phil. It's our first night. We can't waste it just because I'm a little tired."

"You're more than a little tired," Coulson said. "And we won't be wasting it. Do you know how long I've dreamed of sleeping in the same bed as you, waking up with you in my arms, without having to worry about Daisy or anyone else finding us sharing a bed?"

Clint opened his mouth, and hesitated. He blinked. Swallowed. "When you put it that way, it doesn't sound so bad."

"It sounds like something I've wanted almost since I met you." Coulson moved closer, putting his hands on Clint's hips, pressing chest to chest against him. "It sounds like heaven. One bed, nobody to interrupt us. No jumping at every sound. No dashing about before dawn, scrambling to find your socks and shirt in the dark. No worrying that we'll sleep too long and Daisy will decide to start work early. Just you, and me, and a bed, for as long as we want it."

The tip of Clint's tongue flickered over his lips. "I've been looking forward to that, too."

"And in the morning," Coulson said, "when you've rested up, we can always make up for what you're too tired for tonight."

Clint ducked forward and brushed his lips across Coulson's, a sweet kiss that wasn't enough and felt like everything. "Now there's something we haven't done yet. You stretched out on that big bed, sunshine instead of candlelight, doing whatever we want for as long as we can...I could get to like that a lot."

The image of sunlight dappling Clint's skin, golden from summer heat, made heat stir in Coulson's belly. For a moment, he couldn't remember why they weren't rushing to the bedroom this very instant.

Then Clint yawned again and soap suds splattered Coulson's shoulder as Clint raised a hand to cover it.

"Tomorrow," Coulson said. "For now, sleep."

"Yes, sir," Clint said, with a crooked smile. "I guess you're right about that much."

They left the last few dishes to air dry, although Clint insisted on putting the left-over food in the larder where it wouldn't spoil, even though he looked ready to sleep on the table if Coulson gave him half a chance. When the kitchen was tidied to Clint's satisfaction, Coulson took his hand and led the way down the hallway to his bedroom. Clint's eyes slid closed before they were halfway there, and when Coulson looked back, his heart did something strange and fluttery at the complete trust that showed. He led Clint to the bed, which had been made up hours ago, and nudged Clint to sit down on the edge.

As he knelt to unlace his boots, Clint tried to protest. "That's not your job, sir."

"Tonight, it is," Coulson said, batting Clint's hands away. "Sit up and let me do this, please?"

There must have been a look in his eye that Clint couldn't argue with; he sat back and didn't protest further as Coulson pulled off his boots and stood to unbutton and slip off his shirt. Clint took care of his own trousers and slipped beneath the covers naked, while Coulson hurriedly undressed and pulled on his pyjama trousers. He would probably regret the wrinkles in his clothes tomorrow from letting them lie on a chair all night, but as he wrapped his arms around Clint's chest he couldn't make himself care. He buried his nose in the back of Clint's neck, breathing in his scent, and drifted to sleep feeling more content than he'd ever known was possible.

# 

Chapter Two

_London, September 23, 1908_

Clouds had rolled in overnight, and a light drizzle was falling when Coulson climbed down from a cab late the following morning. The lack of morning sunshine hadn't dented Clint's appetite to explore the possibilities of a lazy morning in bed for the first time, which had worked out very well for both of them. Too well, perhaps, because it was almost noon and Coulson had planned to make an earlier start on the day. It had been worth it, though. More than worth it.

Coulson glanced back as Clint paid the cab driver and hurried to catch up with him. A smug smile hovered around the corners of Clint's mouth, never quite emerging but there for anyone who knew him well enough to sense, and Coulson couldn't fault him for it. Not after making him see stars twice in one morning. Coulson had thought himself too old for it, but apparently he only needed the right partner with the right talented, amazing mouth and hands.

With an effort, Coulson pushed the memories away and focused on the house in front of him.

"Any idea what Stark wants?" Clint said.

Coulson shook his head. "Knowing him, it could be anything."

"He asked for both of us, though. That's got to mean something."

"It could just mean that he wants me to distract Pepper while he makes you test another bow for him."

Clint scowled. "Don't know why he's bothering. My bow is fine and the last one he tried out could have killed me, if I'd actually drawn it all the way."

"Mr Stark doesn't like to be defeated by any engineering challenge."

"Doesn't mean he has to mess with weird materials and test the things on me."

Coulson smiled. "If he's got another bow for you to test, I'll make sure he draws it before he makes you try it."

He jogged up the steps and pressed the button for the doorbell. Jarvis opened the door before it finished clanging.

"Mr Coulson," he said. "Mr Stark is expecting you."

Coulson smiled and tipped his head as Jarvis stood back. Clint received a frosty look from the butler, but he didn't suggest Clint go round to the servant's entrance, which was an improvement on other visits to the house. Either Jarvis had been warned that Clint was necessary, or something was happening inside that made Clint's unwelcome presence in the hallway a lower priority than normal.

"Mr Stark is in his workshop," Jarvis said. "I can show you the way."

"Phil!" Pepper's warm voice brought a smile to Coulson's voice. She descended the stairs in a rustle of silk, her hands already outstretched. "I wasn't sure whether you'd come today or tomorrow. You must still have so much to do in your new flat."

Coulson took her hands and kissed her cheek. Her fingers clutched his too hard and there was a tightness around her eyes that worried him. He tried not to let it show in his voice. "I was relieved to have an excuse to escape. It was a choice between visiting here, or attempting to organise my books without a library to put them in."

Pepper's chuckle was almost casual enough to believe in. "Jarvis, I'll show them to the workshop. Can you ask Mrs Wilton to bring us some tea?"

Jarvis was too professional to raise his eyebrows, but Coulson was sure he wanted to. All he said was "Yes ma'am" before gliding away in the smooth, unruffled way all butlers seemed to develop. Out of the corner of his eye, Coulson noticed Clint studying him intently. Probably looking for hints to make his role as a valet-butler more convincing. He'd been trying harder than ever to learn his craft since he came out of hospital, as though being the perfect valet would make the rest of the world ignore that he was so much more.

When Jarvis was out of earshot, Pepper's too-bright smile disappeared. "Thank you for coming, both of you. Tony's been impossible ever since he agreed to ask for your help."

"Isn't he impossible most of the time?" Coulson asked, making the joke almost on automatic.

Pepper wrinkled her nose. "More impossible than normal, then."

"What's wrong?" Clint asked.

"I'll let him explain," Pepper said. "He's in the workshop. I've barely been able to make him leave it for the last week."

She led the way through the house, to the workshop at the back that had once been a library. The gadgets dotting the benches and shelves had multiplied since the last time Coulson was here, although he couldn't work out what any of them did at first glance. Pepper stared around and made an exasperated sigh. "He must be inside the _Iron Heart_. I'll fetch him out."

"No bows," Clint murmured, as she disappeared through the French doors leading into the garden.

Coulson nodded. "I hope you don't mind, but I suspect we might wish this had been about a new bow in a few minutes."

Clint frowned at spindly creation skittering up and down one shelf, emitting tiny puffs of steam as it went. "I think you might be right."

They didn't have to wait long. Stark's voice floated through the door, complaining about being taken from his work, a few seconds before the man himself arrived. Pepper followed, rolling her eyes in fond exasperation that almost disguised the worry still lurking in them.

Stark had clearly been deep into whatever he was doing inside the Iron Heart. His white shirt was untucked and spattered liberally with oil and char marks. A long streak of grease ran down the side of his face into his neatly trimmed beard and there was a wildness around his eyes that told of not enough sleep and too much coffee. It wasn't the first time Coulson had witnessed him filthy and absorbed in his work, but there was an extra air of manic activity Coulson hadn't seen before.

Stark grinned, brittle and too wide, and picked up a brass gadget from his workbench. "Bored of your new home already?"

His fingers began tracing the edges of his device, pulling it apart without looking down to see what he was doing. Hopefully it wasn't something that would explode through carelessness.

Coulson shrugged. "Your note sounded urgent."

The brass gadget disintegrated into several smaller parts and fell on the bench, the metallic clatter sounding too loud in the dead silence that had fallen. Stark's smile was frozen, sickly, and he didn't react when a wisp of smoke curled up from one of the pieces. It floated away on the breeze from the door.

Eventually, Stark cleared his throat. "I didn't think you'd take me seriously."

Coulson raised his eyebrows. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Most people don't."

"Tony!" Pepper looked torn between shouting or strangling him. "You know that's not true. There's an entire board who take you seriously--so seriously that they're refusing to approve any new expenditures until you actually present them in person."

"Minor details," Stark said. "Coulson doesn't need to hear about boring business details."

"When it has in impact on why they're here," Pepper said, "I think they do."

"Why are we here?" Coulson said.

Pepper glanced at Stark, but he showed no sign of answering, so she took the lead. "We had a burglary two weeks ago. Tony needs your help to find the item that was stolen."

"Two weeks ago? Have you talked to the police."

Pepper's lips tightened. "No."

"Why not?"

Stark waved a careless hand. "It's not the kind of item the police are equipped to deal with, even if they were competent enough to find it."

"They could look for the thieves," Clint said. "That's what they do. Uphold the law, catch the people breaking it."

"How's that working out for you?" Stark raised an eyebrow. "I see they're doing a really good job of catching you."

"We don't break the law," Clint said, lifting his chin. "Much."

"We have an understanding," Coulson said.

"You do the things they can't, to see justice done?" Stark snorted. "That just proves my point. The police can't handle something like this."

Pepper nodded. "That's why I suggested bringing you in."

That made more sense than Stark having independently decided to call on them. Coulson nodded his understanding. "What did they take?"

"It's easier if I show you," Stark said. "She's in the garden."

Coulson exchanged a glance with Clint as they followed Stark and Pepper through the French doors. Curiosity and excitement lit Clint's eyes, animating his face and reminding Coulson all over again why it felt so right to have Clint at his side.

A high brick wall surrounded the garden, topped with shards of glass glinting in the late morning sunshine. The beds and lawn were well cared for, although yellowing leaves dotted the green grass here and there as nature rebelled against the best efforts of the dedicated gardeners. The wall was more to keep people out than hide anything; most of the garden would be clearly visible from the upper windows of neighbouring houses. Only one area of the garden showed signs of neglect, a small corner between the wall and the house where the grass was ankle high and leaves had piled up against the wheels of the contraption nestled there.

Coulson recognised it: the Iron Heart. It looked like an enormous box on wheels, with a smaller box welded to the front. A driver's bench perched on top of the front box and a canopy had been attached since Coulson last saw it. The large wheel for steering was familiar, as were the pedals for controlling the machine; Coulson couldn't remember how many pedals there usually were, but two looked much shinier than the others and he was almost sure they were new additions instead of replacements. A few yellow leaves were stuck to the sides of the machine and the back doors stood wide open.

Although nothing had visibly changed, Coulson shivered: it looked dead in a way it never had before. As though whatever gave it life and vigour had been stripped away, and he was only looking at the husk.

"What's wrong with it?" Clint asked, his voice hushed.

Stark's lips pulled down in a grimace. "The thief only took one thing. This."

With a dramatic flourish, he pressed a button concealed under the driver's bench and the side of the front box dropped down on a hinge. Coulson leaned closer, peering to see what was inside. Brass cogs and gears filled the space, surrounding a dark void in the middle. There used to be a blue glow escaping the seams at the edges of the box; whatever used to sit in the void, Coulson was sure it was what had made that glow.

"I can't see anything," Clint said.

Stark rolled his eyes. "Of course you can't. It's gone."

Coulson tilted his head, trying to calculate the dimensions of the missing object from the space it had once occupied. There seemed to be wire linkages twisting at the edges and he thought he could see fine silver chains draped across some of the lower cogs, although it could just be imperfections in the metal glittering in the sunlight. "What was it?"

"The Iron Heart's power source," Pepper said. "Someone stole it."

"I suspected that much," Coulson said. "But what _was_ it?"

Stark shrugged. "I don't know. It was something my father had, but he never told me where he got it from. Could have been in the family for generations, for all I knew. He called it the Blue Stone. Not his most original name."

"Tony found it in Mr Stark's bank vault ten years ago," Pepper said. "The notes with it weren't very informative."

"I don't think he knew what it could do," Stark said. "He couldn't explain why it glowed, but he hadn't tried to find out, either. I decided to study it."

"Did you find out why it glows?" Clint asked.

"Still a mystery." Stark made a face, frustration clear in every line. "Just like everything else about it. Doesn't scratch, even if you use a diamond, and it doesn't shatter no matter how hard you throw it. If there's a mechanism inside, it's too small to be seen, even with the most powerful microscope I can buy."

Coulson stepped closer and reached inside the box, touching the twisted wires delicately and confirming that the scraps of silver chain had once been a cradle for something. "But you worked out how to extract its energy."

Stark nodded, reluctantly. "I needed a power source for the Iron Heart. I've been working on something, a miniaturised engine that will make steam irrelevant, but I hit some snags and I needed to make the Iron Heart work. It's a prototype, and the Board needed to see that the concept was sound."

"Now that we're out of the weapons business," Pepper said, "we're starting a transport division, trying to find a safer alternative to steam cars and dirigibles."

"They have a bad habit of blowing up when their operators don't know what they're doing," Stark said sourly. "The person who can manufacture vehicles that are safer and provide the same speed will make a fortune. The person who can design a flying machine that won't blow up when someone lights a cigarette somewhere foolish will make two fortunes."

"So you took a short-cut," Coulson said. "You worked out how to get energy out of the Blue Stone and plugged it into the Iron Heart."

"Put that way, it sounds like a really bad plan."

Coulson shook his head. "How close are you to making your miniaturised engines viable?"

"Close!" Stark said. "Weeks away. Maybe less. The problem isn't creating the power, it's maintaining a steady flow without--"

"Exploding?" Pepper suggested.

Stark waved that away. "It happened once."

Pepper looked like she wanted to object, but she snapped her mouth shut.

"The problem now," Stark said, "is maintaining a steady flow without surges that burn out the wiring. As soon as I've got the regulation fixed, it's going to revolutionise everything."

"If you're so close to having the new engines working," Coulson said, "why do you need the Blue Stone back?"

Stark looked uncomfortable, dragging his hand through his hair and leaving it sticking up in every direction. "I've been working with the Blue Stone for a while, and I came to the conclusion that it's...dangerous."

"What kind of dangerous?" Coulson asked.

"It's incredibly powerful." Stark made a helpless gesture. "I only tapped into a fraction of its power. I've never seen anything like it. With the right series of transformers, I could light up every home in London and the stone would have enough left over for ten more cities. Twenty. Probably more. You'd need an engineering genius to do it, and there aren't many of us around, but with the right man"--he winced as Pepper kicked his ankle--"person working on it, the stone could be the beginning of an entire industry of clean, cheap energy."

"Doesn't sound so dangerous to me," Clint said.

Stark's smile was grim. "In the right hands, it could be used to make light and heat for the masses, or provide fast, clean transportation. In the wrong hands, that much power could level a city."

A shiver ran down Coulson's spine. "You're afraid it's in the wrong hand."

"Someone stole it," Stark said. "That doesn't say anything good about whoever took it. The stone was the only thing they took--they knew what they wanted."

"Did you tell anyone about it?"

Stark shook his head. "Not even the board of my company."

Pepper's lips twisted in a grimace. "I didn't tell anyone, either. Not even Mr Stane, although it would have made the last couple of Board meetings much easier if I had. He's been pushing to reopen the weapons division, now the rumours on the Continent are starting to sound more urgent."

No spark of humour lit Stark's eyes. It was the most serious Coulson had ever seen him. "If Europe goes to war, whoever owns the stone wouldn't need an army to win. They could unleash it and the war would be over in an afternoon."

"Finding stolen property isn't something I've had much experience with," Coulson said. "I usually try to prevent the theft before it happens."

"You've got contacts, though," Pepper said. "I've been talking to everyone I can, and nobody has heard anything, but I'm not talking to the right people."

"I'm hardly a master spy," Coulson said.

Stark shot him a crooked grin. "You're the closest thing we have to one."

Coulson exchanged a look with Clint, who gave a tiny nod. "I'll do what I can. Do you have a description or a photograph that would help?"

"I have a photograph," Stark said. "It's colourised. Before I realised how dangerous it could be, I planned to find a way to duplicate it, so I wanted something to show the Board."

"There's a feeling around it," Pepper said. "It seems to lurk, even when you can't see it. I can't explain it."

To Coulson's surprise, Stark didn't contradict her. "Trust me, you'll know it when you find it."

A few minutes later, Coulson tucked a small colourised photograph inside his pocket as he followed Clint down the stairs to hail a cab. Even in the photograph, there seemed to be a faint, etherial glow in the centre of the square blue gem.

"What's next, boss?" Clint said, holding up a hand to flag down a hansom clopping sedately towards them.

Coulson considered the question for a moment before making a decision. "I need to go to the offices of the _Evening Standard_. There's an advert I need to place before the final printing."

# 

Chapter Three

_London, September 23, 1908_

The streets were shrouded in shadow when Coulson ducked into a stinking alley in the warehouse district near the docks. The buildings at this end of the docks were shabby at best. More lay dark and abandoned than open, and the half the gas lamps on the street were broken, leaving puddles of darkness for the unwary and those who preyed on them. Coulson kept one hand on the lead pipe hidden in a pocket inside his black, threadbare coat. He'd learned how to move in this district without being stopped by the hunters: walk tall, put a swagger in his stride, and don't make eye contact.

This part of the docks had suffered more than any other when shipping companies began switching their loyalties to the new dirigibles. It made for hard times and dangerous streets, and Coulson sometimes wished that he had the resources to include this area in his nightly rounds. Even with Clint at his side, though, there was a limit to how much of London he could keep an eye on.

He grimaced at the stench of rotten refuse--and worse--in the alley and concentrated on breathing through his mouth instead of his nose. It didn't help much.

A dark shape separated from the shadows at the far end, resolving into the familiar figure of Billy, the leader of the gang of street kids who supplied Coulson with some of his targets. "Evening, guv."

Coulson stepped deeper into the alley and shook the boy's hand. Young man, now. He'd grown several inches and filled out since Coulson last saw him. A battered cap hid his tangled curls, and his coat was fraying at the seams. Coulson subtly checked his watch was still on his wrist after Billy released his hand. He trusted the thief with information, but never with goods.

"I'm glad you could make it," Coulson said.

Billy shrugged. "You used the emergency code. Figured it 'ad to be important. What do you need, guv?"

"Information," Coulson said, "but it's too complicated for our usual communications."

In the faint light escaping from a distant gas lamp, Billy's eyes glittered with interest. "Complicated sounds profitable."

"It could be," Coulson said. "I'm looking for a gem. A blue stone, shaped like a cube, each side about the length of my palm."

"And you want my kids to keep an ear out?"

"And an eye, if possible."

"We don't come across fancy jewels much," Billy said. "Outside our price range, if you get my meaning."

Coulson nodded. "I understand, but I also know that you'll hear about any large deals being done, even if you don't have your fingers in the pie."

Billy puffed up a little under the quiet praise. "You got that right, guv. If I 'ear anything, 'ow do I tell you?"

"The usual way," Coulson said. "I'll make sure you're well compensated for any information you find, but don't take any risks. Don't go looking for it. Just let me know if you hear anything in the course of your usual work that might be connected to it."

"Can't make profit without a bit o' risk."

Coulson frowned. "I don't want your people getting hurt looking for it."

"Don't worry, guv," Billy said. "If I 'ear about your bauble, we won't go thieving it. That's your job, right?"

Coulson rolled his eyes, even though Billy probably couldn't see it in the dark. "I'm no thief."

Bill snorted. "A'course you ain't."

There was a pause. Billy shuffled his feet, his worn boots scraping on the dirty cobbles. It was impossible to see his expression, but he held his shoulders tight and tense, more so than the filthy alley or the dark street beyond warranted.

"How is the family doing?" Coulson asked, when Billy showed no sign of leaving or talking.

None of the children in Billy's gang were his family, not by blood, but circumstance had pulled them into a group tighter than many families. Circumstance and a mortal fear of orphanages and workhouses, which Coulson could respect, even though he wished he could find a better way for them to live. They would grow up between the cracks, learning what they needed to live, and Billy made sure they were safer than many of the children out there. He wouldn't let them be sold or exploited, even though pickpocketing and information brokering wasn't how any child should have to live.

Billy shrugged. "Same as ever. Picked up two new 'uns in August. Can't get 'em to tell us what 'appened to their parents. Reckon their Da was a mean 'un, though, so it don't take a genius to work it out. They got quick fingers and the girlie's a pretty 'un--makes for a good distraction when we need it."

The slightly hunched look didn't melt from Billy's stance, and Coulson frowned. "Billy, what's wrong? If you tell me, I might be able to help."

"We don't need no 'elp," Billy said, lifting his chin.

"Everyone needs help sometimes," Coulson said. "You know I've got contacts in places you can't go. Just like you have contacts where I can't. Tell me what's wrong and I might be able to help."

Billy seemed to consider it for a moment, before his shoulders slumped and he gave a jerky nod. "Two o' the kids disappeared last week. Sparks and Doc. They're good 'uns, not flighty like some o' them. Been with us near two years, now, and I figured they'd be 'ere for another two. Ran away from some orphanage out in the country what sounded no better 'n a work'ouse. Couldn't make 'em go back and they didn't 'ave no 'ome, so they stayed on. Turned out to be shit at thieving but right useful at other stuff. Didn't figure 'em for the type to up and leave without saying goodbye, if you know what I mean."

"You want me to find them?" Coulson asked.

Billy shrugged. "Just...if you 'ear anything 'bout kids vanishing. Or...or bodies. A boy and a girl. Reckon they're about thirteen, but scrawny for it."

"I'll keep my eyes and ears open," Coulson said. He meant it, too. "And I'll make inquiries where I can."

"Thanks, guv." Billy hesitated, before dipping a hand into his coat pocket and pulling out something he offered to Coulson. "I were going to give this to you anyway, but 'ere. I won't even make you pay for it, this time."

Coulson took the scrap of paper he held out. "What is it?"

"You were asking about work'ouses what were open to deals," Billy said. "Back in the summer. Took me a while, but I reckon that's the one you're looking for. Pay 'em the right money and you can march right in and take your pick. Whatever's your fancy. Want 'em small and pretty, or big and bruising? That's your place, and no mistake. 'Eard they did a lot of trade a few months ago, but their buyer went out of business and now the owner's 'urting for money again and looking for a new dealer."

In the darkness, Coulson didn't need to hide his revulsion. He tucked the paper inside his coat and pulled a jingling purse out of his pocket. "Thank you. That one shouldn't be free--here. If I find any sign of your friends, I'll get word to you the usual way and we can talk about a trade."

Billy snatched the purse and bounced it once in his hand before making it disappear somewhere inside his own coat. "You're a gent an' no mistake. Thank you."

"Don't thank me unless I hear something."

"Fair enough." Billy bobbed his head. "I'll keep me 'ear to the ground for your bit o'shine."

"Or anything else that sounds out of place," Coulson said.

"So, usual stuff, then?" Billy tipped the brim of his cap. "Right you are, guv. I'd better be going, then."

"Goodnight," Coulson said.

But Billy had already melted into the shadows he'd emerged from, undoubtedly heading for whatever tiny hole or tunnel he'd used to sneak into the end of the alley earlier. Coulson had learned a long time ago not to try to follow Billy. He had a lair somewhere, with enough space for all the children he'd taken under his wing, and he wasn't going to let anyone--even Coulson--learn where that was. He had a duty to the children he looked after, and they depended on him to keep them hidden from the people who had sent them running to the streets in the first place.

Sighing, Coulson turned and walked out of the alley, already anticipating the warm welcome he would find at home, where he could curl around Clint and try to forget about the world for a while.

***

The hoped-for welcome was there Clint's eyes, but he was wearing his jacket and tie when he greeted Coulson at the door, and his shoulders were straight and stiff. He was playing the perfect valet with every fibre of his body.

"You have a visitor, sir," Clint said, as he lifted Coulson's coat away from his shoulders. "He's in the sitting room."

"Who is it?" Coulson asked.

"Inspector Fury," Clint said. "He's been here nearly half an hour, so he's not in a great mood."

Coulson sighed, suddenly wishing he'd taken the time to change into his respectable clothes before he came home. It had seemed like a good idea to try out their emergency access to the flat a couple of hours ago A chance to test he could get to the flat without being seen, if he ever came home with a bleeding bullet wound or some other injury he couldn't hide.

Not that he planned to get shot again, but nobody ever planned to get shot.

"Did he ask where I was?" Coulson asked.

Clint shrugged, folding the coat over his arm precisely. "He asked. I chose not to answer. It didn't make his mood any better."

Coulson resisted the temptation to lean in and kiss Clint soundly, but he couldn't entirely hide his smile. "I can imagine. Thank you."

"Want me to bring in some tea?"

"I think we'll need something stronger."

Clint's lips turned down. "On an empty stomach? Can't see anything going wrong with that plan."

"I'll eat after," Coulson said.

"You know soaking up the whiskey after doesn't stop you getting drunk and stupid first, right?"

"I'll be careful."

Clint looked doubtful, but he didn't say anything more, which Coulson was grateful for. He had a good point; their lives were ruled by who knew which of their secrets, and letting his mouth run away due to too much whiskey on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster. But he couldn't ask Clint to make him a late supper without asking him to cook for Fury, too, and their friendship hadn't yet returned to a state where sharing a meal was anything except stiff and uncomfortable.

Coulson watched Clint walk away, towards the kitchen, wishing he could follow and knowing he couldn't.

Instead, he walked to the sitting room door and took a deep breath before he opened it and walked in.

Fury looked as imposing as always, sitting in one of the wingback chairs flanking the fireplace, scowling at a book. His eye-patch didn't completely disguise the scars around his missing eye and his suit and shirt were rich black, enhancing the air of menace radiating from him. If Coulson hadn't known him for so many years, he would have been halfway to summoning the police purely based on Fury's appearance.

Fury raised his head when Coulson closed the door, his lips curling into something that might be called a smile, if the observer was feeling generous. "Phil. I haven't seen you at the club for a few days."

Coulson shrugged, gesturing around the room, which was still littered with partially unpacked crates and chests. Only one box of books had made it to the shelves so far. "I've been a little busy."

"Anything I should know about?"

Coulson moved to the drinks cabinet and picked up a decanter. "Whiskey?"

"You went to the trouble of unpacking it before your books," Fury said. "I can't turn that down, can I?"

Chuckling, Coulson poured and carried the glasses to Fury, handing him one and sitting down in the wingback chair opposite with his own.

Fury saluted with his glass and took a sip. "So, is there anything I should know about? I'm not as easily distracted as that."

Coulson pulled out the little scrap of paper from Billy and held it out. Fury took it and read it, his eyebrow rising.

"What is this?"

"A workhouse," Coulson said. "According to my source, the owner will sell his residents to whoever is willing to pay. He had a steady buyer until late in May, but then that revenue suddenly dried up. Around the time Justin Hammer's automaton business...closed down."

"Ah." Fury read the address again. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"Whatever you want," Coulson said. "I can't tell you how to do your job, but I thought you'd find it interesting. Maybe you could take a couple of your people there to look around, check the owner's accounts. That sort of thing."

"Maybe I could." Fury made the paper disappear inside his jacket. "Is that where you were tonight?" He gestured, encompassing Coulson's scuffed boots and fraying jacket with one lazy gesture. "Visiting your source? I thought you kept your distance."

Coulson tipped his head, acknowledging the hit. Over the months, he'd slowly revealed some of the details of how he worked, when it was necessary. "It was a special occasion."

"Phil," Fury said, his tone tinged with wariness. "What are you working on?"

"I don't know yet," Coulson said. He held up a hand to ward off Fury's protests. "It's not my secret this time. I promised to look into something for a friend, and he's wary about involving the police."

"That's not what we agreed," Fury said. "You keep me informed and you bring anything big to me, before it can turn into a mess that nearly brings down the government."

Coulson winced. He remembered the promise he'd made. It was imprinted on his memory, that uncomfortable talk in Fury's office and the long discussion they'd had after he talked it over with Clint. But he also remembered Stark's warning about the power in his blue stone, and the potential it held if a government--any government--got hold of it and wanted that power.

"I can't tell you what I'm looking for," Coulson said. "I'll tell you what I can, when I can, but for now all I can tell you is that I'm looking for an object a friend lost."

Fury gulped down the last mouthful of his whiskey. "That's all you can give me?"

"That's all."

"Then I guess that'll have to do, for now." Fury's smile was sour. "Don't think I'll go easy on you if this turns into another mess like the automatons."

"I won't expect you to." Coulson tilted his head. "What brought you here tonight, anyway? It can't just be that I haven't been to the club for a few days. It's been a long time since you've been there more than once in a week, too."

Fury sighed. "I'm here to warn you. You heard they've appointed a new commissioner?"

Coulson nodded. "Sir Henry Aston-Brown. Worked his way up through the Home Office, if _The Times_ can be believed."

"They can," Fury said. "He's been asking questions about the Crystal Palace mess--questions none of us want answered. So far, he seems satisfied with the reports I've given him, and I've kept your name out of it. None of my men will talk, and nobody outside my department saw your face. If we're very lucky, he'll leave it there and move onto something more important. Keep your head down and try not to cause any more major property damage, if you can. You're still more useful to me as the masked vigilante than in prison." Fury scowled. "That could change, if you're not careful."

"I'll be careful," Coulson said. "I always am."

"Hmm." Fury set his glass on the table beside his chair and stood. "I should go. It's getting late and one of us has to get up and work tomorrow, at least."

Coulson stood and held out a hand to shake. "Thank you for the warning."

"Thank you for the address," Fury said. "Maybe arresting a corrupt workhouse owner or two will generate enough good press to distract Sir Henry."

"We can always hope."

They shook hands and Coulson walked Fury to the front door, where Clint waited silently with his coat and hat. Fury acknowledged Clint with a slight dip of his head; Clint kept his expression blank. When the door closed behind Fury, Coulson let out a slow breath of relief.

"Bad meeting?" Clint said.

Coulson shrugged. "Complicated."

"What isn't?" Clint reached out and took Coulson's hand, his fingers warm and rough. "Hungry?"

A loud growl from Coulson's stomach made them both chuckle.

Clint tugged on Coulson's hand, leading him down the hall to the kitchen. "Come on, let's fill that belly of yours. You look exhausted."

Coulson suppressed a sigh. "I thought life would be simpler after we moved."

"You're the masked vigilante and you're friends with Mr Stark and Inspector Fury." Clint grinned. "And you've got me. Your life is never going to be simple."

"I suppose not."

"At least it's not boring, though."

As Clint raised Coulson's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the base of his palm, Coulson reflected that, perhaps, complicated wasn't so bad.

# 

Chapter Four

_London, September 25, 1908_

The most confusing part about having Clint in his bed every night was how they were supposed to behave in the morning. When they were employer and valet, it was easy. There were rules for it, etiquette that had built over the years to define and constrain their interactions. Everything from the morning cup of coffee to the rhythm of dressing and shaving was established and easy to negotiate, because valets down the years had made it so.

Admittedly, Clint had learned most of it on the job, but Gowan had valeted for Coulson for almost two decades, and he'd always drawn the line between them easily. Between Mrs Driver's instructions and Coulson's hints--and more than hints, often--Clint had quickly learned the rudiments of his new profession, but he'd never acquired the instinctive understanding of boundaries Coulson was used to.

And waking up in the same bed sent every rule either of them had learned flying out of the window.

The first morning, it was such a new experience to lounge in bed without worrying about Daisy arriving to clean that they'd almost stayed there all day. Only curiosity about what Stark could want from them finally forced Coulson up, and with him went Clint.

The second morning, Coulson was so tired, he slept through Clint waking up and slipping out of the bed. He didn't wake up until mid-morning, when Clint brought a cup of coffee and they slipped into their old valet-master routine without discussion. It was only when Clint began to serve breakfast without bringing a plate for himself that Coulson noticed, and the awkwardness haunted him all day.

Grey light was sneaking in around the edges of the curtains when Coulson woke that morning. Rain pattered against the windows, tempting Coulson to close his eyes and drift back into sleep. Except he had spent most of yesterday in a tired haze, pottering around the flat and trying half-heartedly to shelve some books, and he refused to let another day drift past so aimlessly.

He rolled onto his side and smiled. Next to him, Clint lay sprawled on his stomach, his head turned away and his breathing soft and slow. The sheets had been pushed down to expose the golden skin of his naked back, tempting Coulson's fingers to touch. Maybe in the depth of winter, Clint would concede to wearing pyjamas, but Coulson quietly hoped he wouldn't. He would have to make sure the bedroom here stayed warmer than the one in the house on Walden Square, which had been uncomfortably chilly at night even wearing pyjamas with a mountain of blankets layered over him.

Coulson debated with himself for another minute, before reaching out to rest his hand on Clint's back. His spread his fingers, admiring the contrast between his paleness and Clint's tanned skin, and wondered not for the first time how Clint did it. He hadn't noticed Clint working shirtless outside. How on earth did he always look like he'd just come in from the harvest?

Tiny muscles twitched under Coulson's palm, and he began gently stroking with the edge of his thumb.

Clint made a sound almost like a soft purr as he woke. The sleepy satisfaction in it sent heat racing through Coulson's body; it was too much like other, more intimate sounds for Coulson to ignore.

When Clint turned his head on the pillow, there was already a warm smile curving his lips. "Hello."

Coulson dipped his head to place a kiss between Clint's shoulder blades, enjoying the way Clint's breath hitched at the action. "Good morning."

"It's shaping up to be one," Clint said. "'Specially if you keep doing that."

"Do you want me to?"

Clint's smile widened. "Fuck, yes."

The skin over Clint's spine was warm under Coulson's mouth, and he tasted a hint of salt when he flicked his tongue over the raised bump of a vertebra. Clint hummed again, the vibrations rumbling through his chest against Coulson's lips and fingers. Coulson kissed his way up Clint's spine, pride warring with desire at the way Clint's breathing sped up and his hips moved restlessly under the sheets, just from his lips and tongue. At the base of Clint's neck, Coulson buried his nose in Clint's hair and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent that had come to mean "home" more than any house or flat ever would.

Clint groaned. "You're too good at that."

"It feels good?" Coulson mumbled against Clint's skin, smiling when it twitched against his lips.

"Too good," Clint said, on the end of another groan. "Come round here and I'll show you how good I'm feeling."

Leaning down to kiss Clint was awkward, but Clint solved it by flipping onto his back, pulling Coulson with him. The sheets tangled around Coulson's legs, and he didn't care. It felt too good, pinning Clint to the bed and kissing him until he was breathless and moaning, hips arching in search of pressure and friction. All thoughts of etiquette and valeting flew away as Coulson lost himself in the sensation of Clint kissing him back, hard and desperate, as though it had been years instead of hours since they'd last touched.

Heat was building low in Coulson's gut, and he ground down against Clint's thigh, searching for some friction of his own. He felt rather than heard Clint's chuckle and the smile curving against his lips. That was all the warning he had before Clint rolled them again, pushing Coulson onto his back and doing some pinning of his own.

Not that Coulson minded. Whenever Clint took charge, it sent an unexpected thrill through his body. Maybe it was because it was such a reversal of their relationship outside the bedroom, or maybe it was because he'd never had a lover who wanted to lead the way before. Whatever the reason, Clint had learned about it quickly, and he seemed to enjoy turning the tables sometimes. Equal participants was great some days, exactly what they both needed, but then there were days like this.

Clint pulled back from the kiss slowly and sat back on his heels, the expression in his eyes sending sparks racing across Coulson's nerves.

"You know, this would be a lot easier if you didn't insist on wearing clothes in bed," he said, wrapping a hand around Coulson's pyjama-clad shin. "Easier access and all that."

"Old habits die hard," Coulson said. His voice sounded shockingly breathless. "I used to have a valet who was shocked if he caught me sleeping naked."

"Must have been the one before me," Clint said. "I definitely wasn't shocked."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Really? Not even on the first day?"

"You were the one clutching the blankets," Clint said. "I was enjoying the show. In case you ever wondered."

"I was more worried that my carelessness might frighten off my new valet, and Mrs Driver refused to retire if I wasn't being taken care of properly."

Clint tilted his head. "I've always wondered. What happened that day, if old habits are why you're always so over-dressed at night?"

"I'd started to forget old habits," Coulson said, dryly. "And there might have been some footpads the night before, I can't really remember any more. I know that I was too tired and sore when I got home to bother with pyjamas."

"Huh." Clint knelt forward, sliding his hand up to rest near the top of Coulson's thigh. "Guess we have to work on that, then."

"Only if you can guarantee we won't forget the first time we're invited to a house party. Or have visitors."

"I'll take my chances."

Clint's fingers barely brushed Coulson's aching hardness as he pulled at the drawstring on the pyjamas, but Coulson couldn't stop himself arching his hips in search of more. A soft chuckle was Clint's only response, wicked and low. He worked with agonising slowness as he unknotted the string and stripped the pyjama trousers away.

Coulson's breath caught in his throat at the expression in Clint's eyes, the wondering, worshipful expression he never seemed to lose. Sometimes, Coulson thought they could do this for the next ten years, and Clint would still look this way each time. 

He hoped they could do this for the next ten years. The rest of their lives wouldn't be enough, if he had any choice in it, because he would never get tired of watching Clint. He would always want to see the way Clint's eyes darkened as he stared, and the way his tongue flickered out to dampen his lips before he dove forward to kiss Coulson again.

He would always want this wonderful moment when their bodies met skin to skin for the first time, and Clint couldn't hold in a moan.

He would always want this kiss. All the love and hope he rarely found the words for, expressed with lips, and tongue, and shaking breaths.

Coulson swept his hands down Clint's back to take a firm grip on his perfect, muscular arse, and ground up against him. Clint made a desperate sound in the back of his mouth and pushed down, setting up a rhythm that Coulson followed easily. They rocked against each other, slowly at first and then frantically, searching for the perfect blend of friction and wet heat, and finding it in each other. The kiss roughed, grew sloppy, until they were grazing lips and panting against each other's cheeks more than actually kissing.

When Clint slid a hand between them, to palm their cocks together, Coulson was so close to the edge that he hurtled over at the first touch. Warmth tightened his gut before pulsing out in wave after wave of pleasure, white stars sparkling behind his eyes. Through the bliss fogging his mind, he heard Clint's shout of release and felt his shudders, but he was too far gone to open his eyes and watch. All he could do was hold on and slump back against the bed, spent and sleepy.

After a while, Coulson opened his eyes to find Clint watching him. There was no sign of drowsiness in Clint's eyes, only a hint of smugness at the corners of his smile and warm happiness in his eyes. Clint's weight was still solid on Coulson's body, pinning him to the bed, but his chin rested on his hands across Coulson's chest.

Watching.

"Hey," Clint said, voice soft and low. "I thought you'd gone to sleep."

"I thought about it."

"Didn't look like you had enough brain left to do much thinking." The smugness in Clint's smile intensified. "You almost screamed, you know."

"I did?"

"You made a kind of whimpering sound," Clint said. "It nearly qualified. I'll make you scream one day."

"I'm not sure our neighbours would appreciate it."

"Our neighbours wouldn't hear. The walls are thick. I checked."

Coulson raised both eyebrows. "You did?"

Clint shrugged. "Figured we'd need to know. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"You screaming during sex." The smugness melted into a wry smile. "Or me making a mistake with a new arrow design."

"I'm sure the neighbours will appreciate not hearing you blow yourself up."

"It was only a small explosion!"

"You've been taking lessons from Mr Stark, haven't you?"

Clint snorted. "Fuck, no. When he blows shit up, he levels everything in a ten foot diameter."

"I was talking about your burgeoning habit of describing an explosion that destroyed a solid kitchen table as 'small', although I should probably thank you for not taking things to Stark's extremes."

"You should," Clint said, with unnerving seriousness. "If you need some ideas on how to thank me..." 

Coulson sighed. "Maybe another day. We really have to get up, before we lose the entire morning."

"Stay there and I'll get your coffee," Clint said, starting to sit up.

"Why?"

Clint paused, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair stood up in wild tufts and the curve of his naked back made Coulson's mouth water despite feeling sated and spent. "Why what?"

"Why are you getting me coffee?" Coulson asked. He sat up, pulling the sheet over his lap. "Are you going to draw my bath and help me dress, too?"

"Probably?" Clint shrugged. "It's my job. I'm the valet, remember?"

"Not in here," Coulson said. "You slept in my bed. We made love together. You haven't called me 'sir' since yesterday evening. You're my valet in the eyes of the world, but--"

"I'm your valet all the time. That's what you pay me for."

Coulson's stomach dropped. "Clint, if I've presumed--"

"That didn't come out right," Clint said quickly. "I'm not...I didn't mean to make it sound like you're paying me for all this, too." He waved a hand, indicating the sheets and bed separating them. "I know you don't pay me for this. I really do. I'm not your whore and we both know that, so don't you go thinking that's what I think."

Coulson reached out and rested his hand on Clint's forearm. The contact was soothing. "I know you don't think that."

"Good."

"But you don't have to valet for me when we're like this, either. That's not how I thought it would be."

Clint tilted his head. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"A little."

"Because it reminds you that I work for you?"

Coulson winced. "Perhaps."

"Only perhaps?" Clint sighed, but his smile was gentle. "You think about this too much."

"I have to."

"No, you don't." Clint turned slightly on the bed, shifting Coulson's hand until he could clasp it between both of his. "I'm the valet. I'm also the man in your bed who is falling in love with you, but that doesn't make me not your valet, and that's all kinds of confusing for both of us."

"Very confusing." Coulson tried to smile. "It doesn't mean you have to make my coffee, draw my bath, and dress me, though. At least in this room, can we not do that? You can valet as much as you want in the kitchen and the living room, but not in here. Please? Here, of all places, I need to feel like we're equal."

Clint shrugged. "I can try. It's not like I take orders in here, is it?"

"And you never will."

"Never say never."

"I will if I want to." Coulson inched forward on the bed. "I will never give you an order here. I will never give you an order when we're intimate, no matter where we are. I will never order you to do something that makes either of us uncomfortable. And if I ever say something that sounds like an order here, tell me, because I would never intend for you to feel like you must obey me. Not when we're like this."

Clint's eyes widened, and his swallow was audible. "Shit, Phil."

"I mean it."

"I know you do. That's what's frightening."

Coulson frowned. "Frightening? I meant it to be comforting."

"It's a lot of power to give me."

"I don't understand."

Clint smiled. "That's because you've never had to worry about where your next meal will come from or whether you're going to be sleeping in a bed or under a hedge. You're giving me all this power to say no to you, and most people wouldn't mean it. They'd say they mean it, say I can say no to them, and the first time they didn't like me saying no, I'd be out on the street with nothing. It's why I never did anything like this before, sleeping with the person who pays me, not even in the circus. With you...you're not like most people. Even if this all ends, you wouldn't send me away with nothing, would you?"

Coulson shook his head. "Absolutely not. I don't want this to end, but if it did...if I was foolish enough to make that happen, I'd never leave you with nothing." He smiled ruefully. "I'm sure Natasha would make me very sorry if I tried."

"She gets protective about her people."

"I've noticed." Coulson hesitated before he added, "And I've made a provision for you in my will. Enough to make you comfortable for a while if anything happens to me."

"Shit, Phil." Clint's fingers tightened around Coulson's hand for a moment. "You didn't have to. If you die, I'll probably be right there beside you when it happens."

Coulson shrugged. "I couldn't take that chance. It's not enough to make my cousin suspicious, but you wouldn't be destitute. Invested properly, you could live on it for a few years."

Clint blinked rapidly a few times, and his voice sounded husky when he spoke. "I don't know how to thank you. That's too much."

The position was uncomfortable, but Coulson leaned forward to kiss Clint anyway. He kissed slowly, savouring the touch of clinging lips and the soft exhalation as Clint sighed into the kiss.

When he drew back, he smiled. "Ready to get up and not valet for me for a while?"

"Not really," Clint said, "but I guess another orgasm isn't want you had planned for the day, is it?"

"It's very tempting, but I have too much to do this morning."

Clint sighed with mock sadness. "Then I guess if you're not going to let me valet for you and we can't stay in bed, you'll have to get up and learn how to make coffee with me."

***

Coulson spent the morning in his office, a tiny space off the living room that barely deserved the title "room". It had a window and was large enough for his desk, chair, and a couple of cabinets for correspondence, but that was all. Even a single bookcase would have made it impossible to open the door wide enough to enter. It was, he supposed, a necessary sacrifice for all he'd gained, although he missed having the freedom to move around while he read frustrating letters. He'd viewed a few flats when he was selecting this one, and none of them had spacious studies.

The type of men who bought these flats seemed to either have offices in the banks and institutions where they were employed, or were more inclined to spend their days visiting friends and clubs than writing letters. A small pile of correspondence had built up during the days of moving-related upheaval, so it took Coulson all morning and most of the afternoon to wade through it all and write the appropriate replies. Clint appeared with coffee and sandwiches at intervals, but he grimaced at the letters and made a rapid retreat when Coulson complained of a cramping hand from so many hours holding a pen.

Coulson couldn't blame him. Writing letters was not his favourite activity, but it was necessary. Maybe one day someone like Stark would invent a more efficient way to communicate across distances, but for now, pen and paper were the rule.

When he finally emerged, stretching out the kinks in his spine, a delicious cooking smell wafted out to greet him, and his stomach growled. He followed his nose to the kitchen, where he found Clint with his jacket stripped off, shirt sleeves rolled up, and a large apron protecting his waistcoat and trousers. Flour dusted his forearms and streaked one cheek, and the kitchen table was littered with bowls, pans, and a rolling pin.

"You've been busy," Coulson said, leaning against the doorjamb.

Clint turned around, a wide grin brightening his face. "It's the first real food I've cooked in here. Thought I'd try some baking, so we've got something for a late night snack the next time we're out late."

"Really?"

"It's a fruit cake. Nothing fancy, but filling after a night of vigilante-ing."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "That's not even a word."

"It is now," Clint said, lifting his chin. "I've also got beef roasting with all the trimmings."

"It smells delicious." Coulson sniffed the air. "Although how you think we'll be able to go out tonight if you stuff us with beef is beyond me."

"We're out tonight?" Clint said.

"I thought we could take a patrol," Coulson said. "It's been a while since I visited the clockworker's quarter. We should probably make sure everything is safe and secure there."

Clint's eyes lit up. "I've got some new arrows I've been wanting to test." When Coulson winced, he added quickly, "Sleeping gas! Nothing lethal, promise."

"Who did you test the sleeping gas on?"

"Er, no one yet?"

***

The clockworker district of London was less fashionable than the jewellery area around Hatton Garden, but over the years, Coulson had learned to keep a watchful eye over it whenever he could. Their shops and workrooms were less heavily guarded than the vaults where precious gems were stored, but they were no less vulnerable to thievery. The best clockworkers produced exquisite pieces worth almost as much as the diamond-encrusted collars and rings of their jeweller rivals, and many clockworkers used semi-precious stones to decorate their devices.

Clockworkers, as a rule, believed so firmly in their own inventions that they preferred to rely on mechanical toys to protect their shops instead of men with stout sticks and menacing appearances. Some of them were justified in that belief. Some of them only learned the error of their ways when their shop was stripped of its most valuable items, including the devices meant to protect it.

Coulson liked to make a sweep of the area once or twice a month, just to remind the local opportunists that clockwork dogs and mechanical traps were not the only protection in the district. It probably didn't deter the most dedicated thieves, but it made casual plunderers step more warily. On a few nights, he had even been able to free unfortunate would-be burglars from a clockworker's devices when they proved to be more dangerous than their inventors had probably intended.

Not that Coulson ever released the victims. He preferred to leave them secured to something immovable, their wounds tended roughly and a note for the clockworker detailing which police station the failed larcenist could be taken to, and a warning that they should revise their device to be a little less potentially maiming if they didn't want to find themselves up on charges, too.

Now that Clint was part of his patrol, his habits had changed a little. Coulson walked the streets, a dark hat pulled low on his brow with his bag-like mask ready to drop down should he need it, and Clint patrolled the rooftops. It was unnerving to catch glimpses of him running across roofs and leaping between buildings, but Clint had the balance of a cat and he insisted the exercise was strengthening the leg he'd broken in Crystal Palace more each day. He was a ghost up there, prowling in tandem with Coulson below, and he never seemed to put a foot wrong.

They had been patrolling for a couple of hours, staying in the shadows as they wove through the streets, when the faint sound of breaking glass caught Coulson's ear. He glanced up, squinting to find Clint, and saw a hint of movement in the darkness above the dimmed gas lights. A soft whistle floated down, a signal that Clint had heard the sound, too, and Coulson began loping down the street towards the noise.

He found the trouble without any difficulty: a smashed window, an open door, and the soft glow of a lantern moving around inside the building. The location made him pause for thought and move back into the mouth of an alleyway opposite. If it had been either of the neighbouring shops, Coulson would have understood why the thieves had broken in. Those clockworkers focused on pretty fripperies for wealthy customers: mechanical toys glittering with semi-precious stones; clever boxes with clockwork locks for keeping secret letters, inlaid with gold and silver; automatic fans for wafting away summer's muggy heat, made with feathers from exotic birds. The shops were filled with valuables that would be difficult to trace when a clever thief got their hands on them.

The shop in the process of being robbed was small and unprepossessing. Not dingy or shabby, but not an obvious target for thievery. Wealthy customers walked straight by it in daylight, their eyes caught by the glitzier offerings to either side. It was a shop where people who needed workhorse clockwork went, and those devices were rarely covered with gems and shiny metal. They were iron and brass, sturdy and cleverly made, with functions more important than simply hiding secret letters or entertaining a bored child for a few minutes.

Another soft whistle floated through the air; Clint wanted to move in and stop them.

Coulson hesitated. There was something odd about this. Very odd. The thieves hadn't left any lookout he could see, and he knew what to look for. The lamp moving around inside the shop didn't highlight a shape in the doorway, keeping watch. The street was empty. Coulson stood in the only alleyway that provided a good view of the shop-front, and Clint hadn't sent the signal that meant he could see somone lurking out of Coulson's eye-line.

Whoever was breaking into the shop was either arrogant or inexperienced, and Coulson wouldn't know which until he got in there.

Clint whistled again, more sharply. Was it time to move yet?

The nagging feeling of wrongness wouldn't go away, but Coulson's couldn't let it frighten him away from doing the right thing. He whistled, trying to keep the sound soft enough not to carry across the street, and barely waited for Clint's confirmation before he began moving.

He took off his hat, tied a piece of thick fabric across his mouth, and pulled his black mask down over his face. The air he breathed tasted thick and cottony, but it would provide a small measure of protection if Clint was forced to test his new sleeping gas arrow. For lack of anything else to do with it, he put his hat on again before running across the street.

The comforting weight of a short length of heavy lead pipe bounced against his leg as he ran, but he resisted the temptation to draw it out. If he needed it, he could reach it easily enough.

There was no one waiting at the shop door. Coulson was careful not to let his foot scuff the ground as he peered inside, trying to make out the lay of the land before they barged inside.

Two figures were moving around in the shop, peering into drawers and cupboards. Their features were hidden under knitted caps and scarves tied over their mouths, but they were small and slim, and Coulson had the impression they were young. He couldn't tell whether they were boys or girls, but one of them had slightly broader shoulders than the other, although the loose clothes they wore disguised any other distinguishing figure. The one with broader shoulders made a triumphant sound as he opened a drawer, and the other one slammed a cupboard shut before hurrying over. The noise was probably audible from across the street, and Coulson winced.

They were not experienced thieves. He wouldn't be surprised if this was their first break-in.

They put their lantern on the top of the cabinet and crowded around it. In the faint light, Coulson caught the flash of metal moving as they pulled out tools and stuffed them in pockets.

It explained why they'd ignored the shops with pretty baubles in the windows and broken into this one, although Coulson couldn't work out why two youngsters would want a clockworker's tools. There wouldn't be much sale value to them, certainly not as much as a few stones and some sheets of gold leaf would have brought.

They closed the drawer and opened the next one down. The smaller one said something too softly for Coulson to make out, but his ears caught the metallic clink as the other one reached in and grabbed a handful of gears.

Stranger and stranger.

Coulson glanced behind, relieved to see the outline of Clint's head and shoulders against the skyline on the roof across the street. This called for a more delicate approach than the two of them barging inside and scaring the children out of their skins. Coulson was more concerned about finding out why they were stealing clockworker's tools than anything else.

When he turned back, they were still filling their pockets with handfuls of metal parts. He considered his options for a minute, before stepping into the doorway and clearing his throat.

The two figures froze, hands still deep in the drawer. Coulson waited.

He expected them to turn towards him slowly. That's what any normal pair of young thieves would have done: turned slowly, knowing they were caught, and sworn at him. This wasn't the first time he'd caught kids on his nightly round. If they were young enough, he usually gave them a good fright and either handed them onto Billy, if they were suitable for his pack, or sent them on their way with a warning. Only the truly hardened ones saw the inside of a police cell, and they never froze or swore. They always had an escape route planned out and they tried to run.

The youngsters were motionless for so long, Coulson started to worry. He began to take a step forward, and they moved.

The broader one shoved the drawer shut with a bang that echoed around the shop. His companion swept the lantern onto the floor, where smashed and flames whipped across the floor to follow the path of the oil spilling out. It was Coulson's turn to swear, as he looked around for some way to put out the fire.

The kids jumped over the flames and ran across the shop to the door Coulson still blocked. An unexpectedly hard shove sent Coulson sprawling out of the way against the wall, and they were out of the door, their footsteps slapping against the pavement. Something clanged off a wall and someone cried out, a high, startled sound, but the footsteps didn't hesitate as they faded into the distance.

Coulson swore again and pushed upright, most of his attention on the problem of the fire and how to stop it. He grabbed an oilcloth from where it lay folded on a cabinet and began beating at the flames, trying to put them out. After a minute, he was dimly aware of Clint's arrival and the sound of Clint's voice swearing at the fire and the kids who had outrun his arrows.

Together, they managed to beat the fire down to an angry smoulder before they heard the clanging of an approaching fire engine. Clint grabbed Coulson's hand and pulled him away. They ducked into the alley across the street just before the fire engine chugged into sight, its bell echoing through the night air as men in bulky dark clothes jumped down and ran towards the shop, where smoke still billowed from the doorway.

As Coulson followed Clint away, moving at a fast walk just below a trot, he remembered what had made his breath catch in his throat. When the thieves pushed past him, he had caught a glimpse of their eyes. The shock of what he saw was why he'd taken a moment too long to recover, enabling their escape.

Peering out above their scarves, their eyes had been a blue so bright they almost glowed.

# 

Chapter Five

_London, September 28, 1908_

Three days later, Coulson still couldn't put the memory of the thieves' eyes out of out of his mind. They were there every time he closed his eyes, every time he paused in the middle of a task.

There was no way they were natural, but he'd never heard of any process that could change eyes so fundamentally. Yellowing of the whites of the eyes, yes. It never meant anything good, but he'd heard of it, even seen it in his grandfather's eyes when he was dying after a lifetime of too much drink. In his Army days, he'd heard men describing yellow fever outbreaks and the yellow eyes and skin men developed as they died.

Glowing blue eyes, that was new.

Coulson flipped the page of his newspaper over, and his eyes fell on the classified ads. He searched them carefully, but without any hope. It was far too early for Billy to have found anything about Stark's blue stone, unless he was disobeying instructions and sending out his kids to look for it.

Across the table, Clint finished buttering his toast and put his knife down with an unnecessary clatter. His jacket was slung over the back of a spare chair and his tie hung loose around his neck. "You're going to burn a hole in it if you glare any harder."

Coulson stifled a sigh and looked up. "Am I that bad today?"

Clint shrugged. "I'm not judging, but...yes. Did the paper do something to offend you?"

"No. It's entirely inoffensive today."

"Ah. Is that the problem?"

"No, it's..." Coulson trailed off, shaking his head. "Yes. There's nothing here. No message from Billy, still nothing about the fire at the clockworker's. I can't help feeling like storm clouds are gathering, but I don't know where they're coming in from. There's something waiting out there, something worse than we've seen before."

For a long moment, Clint chewed a mouthful of toast with a thoughtful expression. He swallowed. "We should have had sex this morning. You're brooding too much. Morning sex is good for you."

Coulson almost spat out a mouthful of coffee.

Clint's grin was far too smug. "Don't get coffee on the tablecloth. Do you know how difficult those stains are to get out?"

"We send everything out to a laundry service."

"And they charge extra when the stains are stubborn." Clint's expression turned musing. "Good thing I don't send them any of the blood-stained stuff. They'd charge extra-extra high for those."

"I'm not sure the finer details of our laundry bill is something we should discuss over breakfast."

"It got you to stop burning holes in the newspaper with the power of your mind, though."

Coulson chuckled, feeling some of the tension knotting his shoulders melt away. "I suppose it did."

"My job here is done, then." Clint nudged the toast rack across the table. "You should eat something, if you've stopped glaring the lack of news. You barely touched your eggs."

"I'm sorry."

Clint shrugged. "You're the one who pays for the eggs. I just cook them, and what you don't take can always be used somewhere. But you need to eat something, or you'll get even crankier and then I'll have to take steps to relax you."

The promise in his eyes made the tips of Coulson's ears warm, but he kept his face bland as he said, "I'll eat something, then."

Clint's triumphant grin last only a moment before he worked through the implications and it soured. "Huh."

Coulson ducked his head so Clint couldn't see his smile as he buttered the last slice of toast. After a long pause, Clint sighed. The silence was companionable as Coulson finished his toast and drained the last of his coffee, the newspaper abandoned to one side where he couldn't see its disappointing lack of news relevant to any of his concerns.

"You should go out tonight," Clint said, as he began gathering up dishes. "To the club, I mean. Maybe talking to Inspector Fury will help. Seems like this is the kind of thing he meant when he wanted you to report anything big and weird before you get stuck into fixing it."

Coulson picked up his plate and coffee cup. "I might do that."

"He might even have seen something like before. You know his department looks for that kind of stuff."

"SHIELD gets the cases no one else wants because they're too strange or difficult to solve."

Clint shrugged. "Same thing. I mean, do you really think anyone else is going to be looking into glowing blue eyes and unexplained thefts from clockworkers?"

"We don't even know if they've done it before."

"So you need to talk to Fury. If they've done it before, he'll know it. If they've done anything else, if they've been seen anywhere, he'll know."

"You make a good point," Coulson said, following Clint down the hall to the kitchen.

"Of course I do," Clint said. "That's why I'm here. Valet, good idea source, and any other bonuses you want."

"I suspect Natasha would disagree with the good idea source."

Clint snorted. "It's not like she's around right now to say anything."

"If she was," Coulson said, "finding Stark's missing gem might be a little easier. Do you know when she'll get back?"

"She's like a cat. She'll turn up when she wants to."

"How does Darcy feel about that?"

Clint shrugged. "She knew what she was getting into when she started making eyes at Nat. It's not like Nat hides what she is or how she works, is it?"

Coulson conceded the point with a nod. He wouldn't want to have a romance with someone who could disappear for days or weeks at a time with barely a word, but he would be the first to admit he didn't have much experience with relationships. Before Clint, he hadn't had a long-term companion, and now that he had Clint in his life, he wouldn't want to he without him for long. It was hard to believe that Clint had only been around for a few months; he'd become such a necessary part of Coulson's life, it felt like he'd been here forever.

Clint took the plate out of Coulson's hand and added it to the stack beside the sink. "I don't know what you're planning today, but you can't stay in here."

Coulson smiled. "Why not?"

"You're not supposed to know what happens in the kitchen," Clint said, as he began filling the sink with water. "Proper gentlemen never do."

"Is that so?"

Clint grinned. "According to my sources, yes. So you should get out of here, before the order of the world collapses. Go and do something with papers or books. Sir."

Coulson rolled his eyes, but he leaned over and stole a kiss before strolling away without another word.

***

The club was almost empty when Coulson arrived. Chester's was never busy on a Monday evening, but it was even quieter than usual, only two old men dozing by the fire in the common room.

"There is a lecture at the Royal Society," Evan said, when he brought a glass of whiskey on a silver plate. "A number of members made arrangements to attend yesterday evening, possibly after too many glasses of port. They felt obligated to keep to their plans after declaring their intentions so loudly."

"Ah." Coulson sipped his whiskey. "Do you know what the subject of the lecture is?"

Evan's lips turned down in disapproval. "I believe it involved biology."

"I see."

"Yes, sir."

Over the years, without ever saying anything blatant, Evans had expressed his disapproval of most areas of science and technology. Coulson could understand some of it--the automatons would have put people like Evans out of work, if they hadn't been shut down--but his disapproval of all innovation was often surprising. Chester's had adopted electric lighting faster than any other gentleman's club, for its reliability and safety, and Coulson knew there were a dozen different improvements behind the scenes that had made life for Evans and the other staff far easier than it had been even a decade ago.

As Evans left, there was a small disturbance at the door, and Fury swept into the room. Coulson stood up to greet him, receiving a penetrating glare and a firm handshake in return.

"Thank you for coming out," Coulson said, as he sat down.

Fury scowled. "I'd planned to have supper with my sister, for once, but your note sounded urgent. She'll probably direct the maids to starch my underwear if I don't make it up to her soon. She keeps making pointed comments about barely seeing me and not being my damned housekeeper."

Coulson winced. "Sorry."

"Your note sounded urgent," Fury said, waving away the apology. "Are you going to let me in on what you're working on for your friend?"

Coulson shook his head regretfully. "I'm not authorised to, yet. This is something different."

Fury's eyebrow rose. "Now you've got me intrigued."

"I was on patrol--"

He broke off at Fury's sharp look.

"Are you sure they're asleep?" Fury asked, his voice low as he stared over at the dozing old men beside the fire. One of them was snoring softly.

Coulson hesitated, before shuffling his chair closer to Fury's and leaning forward. He kept his voice low enough that it would only reach Fury's ears as he told the story of the patrol, the clockworker's shop, and the thieves.

"They knocked you aside?" Fury exclaimed partway through, his eye widening.

Coulson nodded. "At the time, I was too surprised to notice much about my fall, but after that wore off...they left bruises, Nick. It wasn't a love tap."

Fury tilted his head. "Never thought I'd see the day when two kids got the jump on you, Phil."

"They weren't normal kids," Coulson said. "That's what surprised me: their eyes. They were bright blue. Too bright, almost glowing."

Fury's eye narrowed. Combined with the scarred skin behind his eyepatch, the expression was hideous enough to be terrifying to anyone who didn't know him well. Even to Coulson, it was unnerving to be the subject of the glare. "Glowing blue eyes. Hmm."

"You've seen it before?" Coulson asked.

"Not seen, but heard." Fury glanced at the two sleeping men by the fire, but they showed no sign of moving. Even so, he barely spoke above a whisper. "This morning, a report landed on my desk. A robbery on Saturday night, at an engineering firm's office. Copies of several plans stolen. Not the originals, but the owner of the firm is furious, because they're for prototypes of new machines he refuses to talk about."

"Can you tell me which firm?"

Fury snorted. "You know better than that."

"It was worth a try." Coulson shrugged. "Where is the connection?"

"The company hired a couple of guards a few months ago, in case someone broke in to steal their plans. Apparently, it's getting cut-throat in their business, and companies are stealing from each other to get an edge. The guard was found in the morning, stabbed twice and barely conscious. Before he died, he described the thief. Or tried to--he was hazy on a lot of details, but one thing stood out. He kept repeating it."

Coulson didn't need to let him finish. "Glowing blue eyes."

Fury nodded. "Glowing blue eyes. The guard didn't have your kind of training, but he was good with his fists and the thief cut him down without much trouble. Doesn't sound like your kids, though. The guard would have noticed if he was fighting children."

Coulson gulped down the last of his whiskey. "So, there are at least three people out there with strange eyes and unexpected strength."

"Almost makes me miss automatons," Fury said. "Almost. Any ideas where they're coming from?"

"Not a single one," Coulson said. "But it sounds like they're building something."

"What makes you say that?"

"They stole parts, tools, and plans," Coulson said. "You should keep an eye out for more thefts."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "I should?"

"Yes," Coulson said, blithely ignoring the threat in his voice. "If you know what the stolen plans are, you might even be able to predict what they'll go after next."

"I hate that you're right, you know that, don't you?"

"It hasn't escaped my attention."

"I still can't tell you what the stolen plans are."

Coulson sighed. "It would be so much easier if you could. I might be able to keep an eye on some likely locations if you did."

"I'll put some people on it."

"Who?"

"Why do you care?"

"It's always useful to know who I might bump into."

Fury glared, but his tone was less irritated than his expression implied. "I've got Rogers and Barnes on the theft. I'll let them know there might be a couple of kids running around with the same condition, but I don't want you approaching them or passing them information, do you understand? Until Sir Henry loses interest in the Crystal Palace mess, I can't afford to have you tied to my men any more than you already are."

"I understand." Coulson hesitated, before adding, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Trusting me."

Fury was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than it had been for months. "I've always trusted you, Phil. It just took me a while to realise I'd been trying not to see some things about you that had always been there."

***

A single lamp glowed in the flat's small lobby when Coulson opened the front door. It was the same one that had always been left on when he returned to the house in Walden Square, the warm glow welcoming him home. Coulson smiled as he took off his coat and hat and hung them neatly. At least this was one thing that hadn't changed with the new home.

Down the hallway, he could see the faint outline of light escaping around the kitchen door, and his smile widened. His boots clicked on the tiled floor, despite his best efforts to move silently, but when he pushed the door open, Clint was still asleep in his battered old chair in the corner. He'd pulled off his tie and waistcoat and undone half his shirt buttons, exposing a welcome expanse of beautifully muscled chest to Coulson's view. His legs were stretched out in front of him and his head was tilted back, but somehow, he wasn't snoring. It was a talent Coulson would never understand or complain about, that ability to sleep in the oddest positions without making more than an occasional snuffling sound.

A basket of mending sat beside Clint's stockinged feet with a white shirt draped across the top, the needle carefully pushed through the fabric and glittering in the soft light from the lamp behind his chair. He must have realised he was dozing off and secured it rather than risk getting blood on the fine cotton. The sight of Clint, surrounded by the tools of his legitimate trade and working while he waited for Coulson to come home, was comforting in a way Coulson hadn't known he needed. It had become part of their ritual so quickly, but now they were finding new rituals, new ways to be together.

If he was honest, Coulson had been half-afraid he'd come home and find Clint already in bed. He wasn't sure why that thought felt so wrong, but it did. These quiet moments late at night had been when they first became more than just valet and employer. This was when they'd started becoming friends, and none of what had happened since would have been possible without that.

Coulson drank in the sight for a long moment, reluctant to break the silence and wake Clint. His heart needed the peace radiating from the sleeping man, to chase away the worry gnawing at his mind after his talk with Fury.

After a while, Clint stirred anyway, making a soft sound at the back of his throat as he opened his eyes and stretched his arms.

There was a knowing smile curving his lips when he lowered his arms. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

"I'm thinking about it," Coulson said. He should have known Clint wasn't as oblivious as he looked. "Were you awake the whole time?"

"Not really." Clint shrugged. "I could feel you watching. Think it's what woke me up."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I didn't plan to fall asleep." Clint glanced down at the mending basket and sighed. "I'd planned to get all that done before you start tearing your shirts to shreds and putting bullet holes in them and making more mending than I know what to do with."

Coulson gaped for a moment, before he collected himself. "What? Why on earth do you think I'll be doing all that?"

"I can read the signs," Clint said. "It's like last time. You're starting to investigate weird stuff--Stark's jewel and the kids with blue eyes--and the next thing you know, we'll be neck deep in conspiracies and people who want to kill us. That causes more mending."

"This is nothing like the last time!"

"Really?"

"Really."

"Because from where I'm sitting, you're starting to get that look you had the last time. The 'I need to know' look, and that's the one that gets us into trouble."

Coulson shook his head. "Stark's commission is a simple finder's job. There's barely anything for me to do, just keeping an ear to the ground and waiting for leads to come in."

"The kids with blue eyes?"

"That...may be something. Apparently Nick has something similar on his desk right now."

"Ha!"

"There may be a connection," Coulson admitted. "But it's his case and I'm not going to interfere. He's got good people on it and he doesn't need me poking my nose in. If I run into the kids again, I'll tell him, but that's all."

"Uh-huh." Clint looked skeptical. "That's really all?"

"That's really all," Coulson said. "I promised Nick that I wouldn't get involved, and I'm not planning to disappoint him again."

"So I was right about talking to him?"

"You were right about talking to him." Coulson nodded to the mending basket. "But you were wrong about my shirts. If you can tear yourself away from them, I'm tired and it's late."

Clint cast one glance at the basket, before standing and stretching theatrically. It was probably pure coincidence that the pose made Coulson's mouth go dry and sent his thoughts in a much less sleepy direction. Probably.

"It's late," Clint said, "but I'm not all that tired. I just had a nap. I'm really well-rested now."

No, definitely not coincidence. Coulson smiled. "Suddenly, I'm not very tired, either."

Clint grinned. "Good."

# 

Chapter Six

_London, September 29, 1908_

Coulson had barely finished breakfast the next morning when hammering at the front door announced a visitor. He exchanged a glance with Clint, who was stacking their plates, and shrugged.

"I'm not expecting anyone."

Clint sighed and put the plates down. His jacket and tie were hanging over a chair and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. "It's too early for this."

"In polite society, yes it is," Coulson said. "But how many of our friends really pay attention to visiting hours?"

"Not enough of them."

"I'll remind you of that the next time Natasha pays a late night visit for a cup of tea."

Clint shrugged. "At least she doesn't care whether I'm wearing my tie or not."

"Maybe not, but I suspect she'd comment if she caught you answering the door without it. Society expects certain codes of behaviour and she knows how to use those."

Their visitor banged on the door again, and Clint scooped up his tie and began knotting it with quick, deft fingers. Coulson left him to make himself presentable and retreated to his study.

The sound of voices was faint through the door, too muffled to make out words or distinguish voices, but not so quiet that Coulson couldn't hear an edge of irritation in his visitor's tone. He uncapped his pen and pulled a sheet of writing paper close, jotting down a few words that probably made no sense while he strained to listen. At least he looked busy when Clint tapped respectfully and opened the door.

"Mr Stark, sir. He insists on seeing you."

"Damn right I do!" Stark's voice floated through the entrance a moment before the man himself pushed past Clint into the room. "I take back everything nice I've ever said about Barton. You've corrupted him, turned him into a perfect little butler robot. He doesn't need to check you're at home--this flat isn't big enough to swing a cat in, never mind lose an entire human being."

Coulson sat back in his chair. "If I arrived on your doorstep without invitation, would Jarvis check whether you were at home before showing me to your workshop?"

Stark glowered. "That's different."

"I can't see how."

"It just is."

Coulson smiled. "I see. When it's me disturbing your privacy, that's a completely different matter from you disturbing mine. And disturbing my breakfast, I'll add."

"Huh." Stark reached up to scrub a hand through his hair, only then realising he was still wearing his hat. He handed it to Barton without a word. "Breakfast? I thought it was later than that."

"It's not even nine o'clock yet."

"Ah." Stark winced. "Pepper's going to kill me if you tell her."

"Where is she?"

"Bristol, overseeing a factory inspection. I would have gone, but we've got a board meeting next week and I'm still working on the new miniature engine. We need a working prototype or the Board won't approve the funds or the plans for the transport division."

Coulson tilted his head. Although Stark was dressed in the latest fashion and his face, for once, showed no signs of grease or oil streaks, the skin around his eyes was dark and there was an unusual tightness around his lips. If he'd slept over the last few days, it hadn't been enough, and Coulson would be willing to bet that he hadn't been eating properly, either. "Barton, can you bring in some toast and coffee for Mr Stark?"

Clint nodded, shooting Stark a concerned look before hurrying away. It was probably a bad sign that Stark didn't protest at the offer of food.

"If you're still working on your prototype," Coulson said, "why are you here? Shouldn't you be in your workshop?"

Stark looked around and found the chair Coulson kept in the corner. It wasn't comfortable, but Stark sank down onto it with a tired sigh anyway. "The Blue Stone. Have you found it yet?"

"If I had, I would have told you."

"Then what are you doing here?" Stark's eyes were too bright, almost feverish. "Why aren't you out there, looking for it?"

There was a light tap at the door and Clint entered with a tray. He set it down on the desk and retreated wordlessly, but not without a curious look. Coulson almost called him back, but he fought the instinct. Clint and Stark could rub each other the wrong way sometimes, and winding Stark up even further wouldn't be helpful right now. He poured the coffee instead, and nudged the plate of sandwiches Clint had made instead of toast closer to Stark's end of the desk.

Stark picked one up and took a bite without appearing to notice he'd done it.

"I've been making enquiries," Coulson said, as Stark drank half a cup of coffee in one gulp. "Nobody in the legitimate jewellery trade has seen or heard of it."

"I could have done that," Stark protested. "I asked you to look for it because you know the illegitimate trade."

"My sources haven't heard anything yet, either," Coulson said. "So far, nobody has tried to sell your Blue Stone anywhere that I can find. Either they already had a buyer, or they're keeping it for their own reasons."

Stark sighed. "I suppose there's nothing you can do to trace them?"

"I'm not a bloodhound. I can't pick up their scent and trace it to their lair."

"I never thought of trying that." Stark looked thoughtful. "Would it work if we did it now?"

"Would what work?"

"A bloodhound! We could buy one. I'm sure it wouldn't take more than a couple of hours."

"It's been too long," Coulson said. "The burglary was nearly three weeks ago. If you'd brought in a bloodhound the same day, it might have worked, but only if the thief left something behind to use for scent. He didn't conveniently drop a glove somewhere, did he?"

"No."

"That's a pity. I might have been able to track him using more human resources if he had."

Stark tilted his head. "You can find someone from a glove?"

"Perhaps, if it's unique enough. I can't imagine a common thieve owning a custom-made glove, though. If he had the money to commission gloves, he wouldn't need to steal your gem."

"If it was an ordinary jewel," Stark said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "It's the Blue Stone. I've got enough money to commission more pairs of gloves than I could ever wear, and I'd still steal the Blue Stone back if I knew where the hell the thief had it."

Coulson tilted his head, examining Stark closely again. "Why are you so desperate to have it back? Even if it's as powerful as you think it is, I still don't understand why you're here when you should be working on your new engine." A new thought struck him. "You can't finish the engine in time, can you? You're planning to use the Blue Stone instead for the demonstration for your board."

Stark stood and began pacing, but the office only had enough room to take three steps before he had to turn. It didn't stop him, though, and he ran a hand through his hair in restless movements as he walked. "It's not cheating, not really. The engine works! All I need is some more time to stabilise the power transfer. The Blue Stone would buy it for me. If I don't get the board on my side, Stark Industries might go back into the weapons business again. Stane will get the votes he needs to do it, if I can't show them a better plan."

Coulson smiled grimly. "If I could find a way to trace your jewel immediately, I would. The last thing this world needs is more weapons."

Stark nodded, his pace never slowing. "The rumours coming out of Europe aren't good. Everyone is competing to make bigger, better weapons so the British Empire follows. Sooner or later, someone will build something that can kill millions at a time, and whoever buys it will win any war before it even starts. Which means someone will start one, either because they're afraid or because they want to use their new toys to expand their empire. The profits available are incredible, and I can't keep Stark Industries out of it without a viable alternative."

"I can't produce it out of thin air." Coulson watched Stark pace, noting the agitation in every step. It seemed extreme, even for the prospect of his company going back into weapons manufacturing against his will. "You said the Stone is dangerous. Is it just the power in it that worries you?"

Stark abruptly stopped pacing, and a deep frown appeared. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not sure yet," Coulson said. "It's only...I wouldn't have expected you to give in so quickly. You still have a few days before the board meeting. Surely, you can get the _Iron Heart_ working for long enough to demonstrate that it works. You said that it was the power regulation that was the problem, not the ability to produce power. Even if it burns out later, surely you can demonstrate it for a few minutes and cover up any problems." Coulson offered a small smile. "I've seen you talk your way out of much worse than some melted gears."

Stark's expression turned inward. He looked so unusually serious, Coulson wished he had a way to capture the moment more permanently than in his memories.

"I might be able to do that," Stark said, slowly. "If I reinforce the manifold...it might work."

Coulson smiled encouragingly. "You don't need the Stone, you only think you do. I've seen the things you can build when time's short. If you want to keep Stark Industries out of weapons, and away from whatever is brewing in Europe, you only need to have the Iron Heart working long enough for the board to see the potential. Transport that doesn't have the potential to explode due inexperience or a badly timed spark would make huge profits if you got there first."

Stark nodded, looking more decisive. "You're right. Of course you're right. I can do this. I've got an entire week, I don't know what I was worrying about. Thank you, Pepper was right about you."

"What's she been saying?"

But Stark was already moving, his mind far away from the office and what he'd said. "Maybe the trick isn't reinforcing, maybe it's the materials in the cradle. I'll call in on one of the metal suppliers on my way home. Pepper was trying to make me do that before she left."

There was no sense in trying to pull Stark's attention back when his eyes held the feverish light of excitement, and Coulson didn't bother to try. He smiled pleasantly and said, "That sounds like an excellent plan. I'll keep making enquiries, but I'm not hopeful."

Stark paused in the middle of pulling open the door, a frown creasing his brow. "One thing does worry me. If the thief isn't trying to sell the Stone, what does he want it for? It's not the kind of thing you just lock up in a vault. It wants to be used." He looked thoughtful for a moment, before shrugging it off. "Goodbye. I'll see myself out. Barton probably has important valeting things to do."

Coulson said goodbye absently, Stark's words still echoing around his mind. _It wants to be used._

What did that mean?

***

Patrol that night was uneventful, verging on dull. They took a walk past the clockworker's area, but nothing was stirring there, and they had to hide in a narrow side-street when a pair of uniformed bobbies appeared around a corner, clearly on the same mission. Nobody would make an attempt on a clockworker's shop while the police were making their rounds.

Clint suggested a walk past a couple of rougher areas nearer the river, but not the docks, and they spent a couple of hours patrolling without success before Coulson called it a night. They used one of Coulson's drop sites to change back into respectable clothes before going home, and Clint grumbled quietly about missing his chances for some target practise as they walked.

At the front door of the flat, Coulson paused before he put the key in the lock. He wasn't sure why, at first, but something felt wrong.

Clint tilted his head, eyes narrowed, and pointed at the floor; there was light coming from under the front door, but Coulson could have sworn they had turned off all the lamps before they left. He nodded his understanding and inserted his key.

It was already unlocked.

Heart hammering in his chest, Coulson pushed the door open a couple of inches. Light blazed forth from every lamp in the hall. He pulled his short length of lead piping out of his coat, the weight reassuring in his hand.

When he glanced back, Clint had his bow strung and an arrow nocked, ready. Coulson was impressed: even in training, he'd never seen Clint do it that fast before.

They exchanged one quick look and Coulson tightened his grip on the lead pipe before he pushed the door open further and stepped inside. Moving soundlessly was difficult, but not impossible. From experience, Coulson knew the heels of his boots would click on the tiled floor--he had a moment's bitter regret for the decision to change out of his rubber-soled shoes when they changed clothes--so he walked on the balls of his feet and moved slowly. Only a rustle of clothing behind betrayed Clint's presence.

The living room was as brightly lit as the hall, but a quick glanced showed it was empty. At the dining room door, Coulson paused; the lamps hadn't been turned on and he didn't have enough hands to hold the lead pipe and crank his pocket torch. After a moment's debate with himself, he flicked the switch to turn on the electric lights. The room was empty.

Coulson almost jumped out of his skin when something tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, half-raising the lead pipe, but it was only Clint. Or more specifically, Clint's arrowhead, still nocked and half-drawn.

Clint nodded down the hall to the kitchen door. It was closed, but light showed underneath. Taking a calming breath, Coulson dipped his head in acknowledgement and began the slow, silent walk down the hall. He rested his hand on the handle and listened, but there was no sound within. A quick glance behind showed Clint ready, bow drawn until the arrow fletching tickled his cheek.

Coulson threw the door open and stepped in and to one side, allowing Clint a clear shot at whoever was waiting in their kitchen.

Sitting at the table, sipping tea from a delicate cup, was Natasha Romanov.

***

Coulson checked the clock as he set a fresh pot of tea down in the centre of the kitchen table. It was almost three o'clock and he could feel the exhaustion pulling at his body, making his eyes gritty and his thoughts sluggish. Clint had been so occupied with hugging Natasha and exchanging low-voiced greetings, he hadn't noticed Coulson boiling a kettle for tea. He would have tried to take over that duty, even though Coulson was perfectly capable of heating water and measuring tea leaves and Natasha was his friend more than Coulson's.

In all honesty, Natasha was a wary ally, and Coulson would never go so far as to describer her as a friend. Not yet. Maybe in a few years, when he'd given her enough demonstrations that he could be trusted, she might be willing to concede to more than acquaintanceship. Coulson would never presume to more with her. She was a dangerous woman to offend.

He got two cups out of the dresser and set them down on the kitchen table. Natasha offered him a small smile around Clint's shoulder and nodded to him. The shift in focus must have alerted Clint, because he twisted around and his eyes widened as he noticed what Coulson had been doing.

"Shit, sorry sir," he said. "I could have done that."

Coulson shook his head with a warm smile. "I know, but you didn't have to."

Clint made a face and turned back to Natasha. "Can I get you anything to eat? Pretty sure there's some fruitcake left. Or I can make you a sandwich."

Natasha smiled and prodded him to a chair. "I am perfectly well-fed, I assure you. Darcy and I shared a delicious supper earlier, and she always insists I must join her in every indulgence."

Clint took a seat next to Coulson and poured tea without asking. Across from them, Natasha took her seat again and curled her slim fingers around her cup. She wore the dark, tight clothes Coulson had first seen her in, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Her clothes were a world away from the rich, fashionable widow she often played in the public eye.

"How long have you been back?" Coulson asked, when she didn't seem inclined to start the conversation herself.

"Two days," Natasha said. Her gaze flickered to Clint's face, where a hurt expression flashed before he could hide it. "I had to see Darcy. She worried that I would forget her while I was gone."

Clint looked only slightly mollified. "You could have sent a letter."

Natasha snorted delicately. "You know why I couldn't do that. What if I'd wanted to tell you something privately?"

"I don't have any secrets," Clint said. "He knows them all."

Coulson frowned. "I would never open your post or read any of your letters if you didn't want me to. You don't ever have to worry about that."

Natasha lifted one eyebrow. "He doesn't know?"

"What were you doing in Vienna?" Clint said, before Coulson could draw breath to ask what she meant. "I didn't know you had contacts there."

"There are many things you don't know," Natasha said.

A memory struck Coulson. "Did you, by any chance, meet with an Austrian minister who suddenly decided to retire from the government, and the appropriations committee he headed?"

Natasha's smile was serene. "I couldn't possibly comment on that."

"According to The Times," Coulson said, "it's caused a deal for a new class of ship to collapse, and it's delayed deals with two other manufacturers, including a company who promised an armoured walking platform with three gun turrets."

"How convenient."

"That's what I thought." Coulson kept his gaze locked with Natasha's. "It will slow down the race half of Europe seem to be having to build the largest, most destructive weapons in history. At least for now. With all the rumours I'm hearing out of Europe, that will be a relief for a lot of people."

"Indeed." Natasha didn't drop her eyes as she sipped her tea. "Whoever reminded the minister that he had some peccadilloes the public might not want to know about should really be thanked, shouldn't they? His unsavoury habits might even save Europe from war for a few years."

"If I knew who to thank, I would." Coulson frowned. "You believe war is inevitable?"

"I believe that when boys have large enough toys, they will always have to find an excuse to use them. Otherwise, what's the point in buying all those toys?"

"Your cynicism isn't comforting."

"It's not supposed to be."

Clint cleared his throat. "Uh, am I supposed to be following any of this?"

Natasha reached across the table and patted his hand. "It's all depressing and political. If you really want to know, I'll explain."

"I'll pass, thanks," Clint said. "It doesn't sound like you killed anyone, so I'm not going to worry too much about anything else you did."

Natasha's smile was small and pleased. "Thank you, I think."

Coulson didn't smile. "Why are you here tonight? Not that you're not welcome to visit, but it's late and I could have sworn I'd locked the door when we left."

"You need better locks," Natasha said. "And I didn't feel like waiting on your doorstep like a bellboy."

"You could have visited tomorrow," Coulson said. "That's what visiting hours are for."

Natasha set her cup of tea down and centred it on the saucer with precise movements. "Darcy asked me for a favour, and I'm not sure it's something I can do on my own."

Coulson raised his eyebrows, but it was Clint who leaned forward and said, "You need help? You?"

Natasha pursed her lips. "Perhaps."

"What's wrong?" Clint asked. "Is Darcy all right?"

"Darcy is well," Natasha said. "She's concerned about Jane, though. And if she's concerned about Jane, I must be, too."

"What's wrong with Jane?"

"She's in love." Natasha snorted, her eyes amused. "According to Darcy, she is head-over-heels, gushy wide-eyed nonsense in love, and it's making her impossible to live with."

Coulson blinked, trying to picture the serious, single-minded woman he knew gushing and gooey in love. The image didn't work no matter how hard he tried. Obsession with a new telescope, perhaps. But starry-eyed over another human being? It was a concept his brain refused to accept.

Natasha chuckled. "I know, I didn't believe it until I met them both for tea this afternoon."

"So, what's the problem?" Clint asked. "Are supposed to scare Doctor Foster's intended off? I would have thought it would be good for her to be too occupied to notice how much time Darcy spends with you."

A faint flush appeared high on Natasha's cheeks, but her voice stayed even. "The man Jane has fallen in love with is a visiting scientist from Sweden. Darcy actually quite likes him, and from the way Jane described him, they are matched on an intellectual level as well as physical."

Coulson almost choked on his tea. He wasn't used to women who spoke so bluntly. Natasha lifted one eyebrow in silent inquiry, her eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.

"Sorry," Coulson said. "Go on. If Darcy likes him, what's wrong?"

"He has a brother," Natasha said. "Or had. The brother went missing a few months ago."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "Kidnapped?"

"They do not believe so." Natasha sipped her tea. "He left the family home and hasn't been heard from since. Doctor Odinson heard a rumour that he might have settled in London, which is why he applied for, and received, permission to continue his research here. His speciality is something to do with the stars, so he used the observatory at Greenwich as an excuse, and that's how he met Jane."

"He's looking for his brother," Coulson said.

Natasha inclined her head. "And he's infected Jane with his concern for his brother, which is why Darcy is worried for her. I promised to help, but I'm afraid I might not be able to do it alone."

"I need to savour this moment," Clint said. "You've never admitted something like that before."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I know where you live and your locks are pathetic."

Clint held up his hands. "You're kind of touchy for a person looking for our help, you know."

Before it could dissolve into bickering, Coulson sat forward. "Exactly what do you need us to do?"

"Meet with them," Natasha said. "Take tea tomorrow afternoon, and hear what they have to say. Jane hasn't told Doctor Odinson who you really are, but there's nothing strange about a few friends meeting to view a prospective suitor, and it doesn't take much encouragement to make him talk about his brother. Between the three of us, we may be able to steer him in the right direction to find his brother."

"Why would I do that?" Coulson asked.

"Because you like Jane and Darcy," Natasha said with a straight face.

Coulson raised his eyebrows.

"And because I'll owe you a favour if you do," Natasha added. "This is important to Darcy, and therefore it's important to me. She's worried about Jane and whether this man, this Doctor Odinson, is telling her the truth about his brother. He might not even have a brother. Jane only has his word that the brother exists, and she's not entirely rational right now."

Coulson sighed. "You won't leave us alone until we say yes, will you?"

"No."

"I suppose Doctor Foster in love might be a sight worth viewing."

Clint grinned. "And you owing us a favour would be worth a lot."

"You'll be there, then?" Natasha said.

"Just tell us when and where," Clint said. "We'll be there. Have you thought of a reason why I'm going to be there? I'm just a valet, after all."

Natasha looked uncomfortable. "It's possible Darcy might be planning to tell a small lie to Doctor Odinson."

"What kind of lie?" Clint asked.

# 

Chapter Seven

_London, September 30, 1908_

"He's going to know I'm not a gentleman as soon as I open my mouth," Clint said, as he hung Coulson's jacket up half an hour later.

Coulson shrugged. "He's Swedish. He might not notice your accent. I can't tell one American from another, or one Scandinavian accent from another, either. Hopefully, he'll assume that if you're American, you must be a rich gentleman to be keeping company with someone like Doctor Foster or Natasha."

"Or you?" Clint said.

"Or me," Coulson said mildly.

Clint stretched, arms overhead and spine curving, and Coulson's tired body tried to sit up and pay attention even though a few minutes ago, he could have sworn he wasn't capable of anything more than sleep. It was all the golden skin and twitching muscle: combined with trousers riding low on his waist, they would make a dead man wake up.

Coulson would freely admit he might be biased about Clint's charms, but he didn't think he exaggerated very much.

Most of the time, Clint didn't even seem to realise. He lowered his arms and padded to the bed without a backward glance. Watching him strip off his trousers before getting under the covers was almost enough to make Coulson forget what they were talking about. Clint's unhappy frown brought his attention back to the conversation. "If he doesn't notice my accent, he'll notice I don't know anything about afternoon tea in fancy hotels and my suit doesn't look right."

"He's a scientist," Coulson said. "You've met Doctor Foster and Doctor Banner. They wouldn't notice what you're wearing even if you wore a clown's costume, and afternoon tea isn't difficult. Watch what I do and follow my lead. It's hardly a dinner party with four kinds of fork. It's sandwiches, scones, cake, and tea."

Coulson crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, sliding into the covers and feeling all his muscles relax as Clint pressed against his side. The heat low in his belly still tempted him, but the hour was late and weariness dragged at his body, enough to dampen his desire.

"This is going to go so badly," Clint said. "I can feel it."

"Natasha and I will make sure it doesn't," Coulson said. "If she's right, he'll only have eyes for Doctor Foster, and Natasha will steer the conversation to his search for his brother as soon as possible. He'll barely notice you're there."

"I hope you're right," Clint said.

"I usually am."

Coulson reached up and flicked the switch to turn off the electric lights, plunging the room into darkness. Moving closer to Clint and spooning up against his back was done through pure instinct. Sometimes, it was frightening how quickly the habit had formed. He kissed Clint's shoulder and smiled against the warm skin as Clint twined their fingers together and twisted around to brush their lips together. It was an awkward angle, but slow kiss made something inside Coulson's chest loosen, and he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow again.

***

The hotel Natasha directed to them served tea in a room with high ceilings, chandeliers, and a profusion of small tables and chairs. Most of the people sipping tea and nibbling cakes were women, and as Coulson made his way towards the corner where Natasha sat, he felt he was negotiating a careful path between a profusion of wide hats as much as between tables. A particularly large, feathered monstrosity nearly took his eye out when its owner gestured emphatically to her companion and threw her head back unexpectedly. Clint followed in his wake, and Coulson pretended not to hear his occasional muttered curses as hats assaulted him in passing.

The staff moved between the tables with practised ease, pushing narrow carts that puffed and steamed, or holding trays high in the air to keep their contents safe from waving feathers and other millinery excesses.

Coulson breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the other side of the room without causing any outcry. He hadn't realised, until he stopped moving, that a small chamber quartet was playing in the corner.

Natasha's hat was modest by the standards of many of the nearby women, although its wide brim sported enough feathers to clothe a small chicken. Her dark purple afternoon dress stood out against the pretty pastels around him, but it complimented her dark red hair perfectly.

"You're early," Natasha said, after they exchanged greetings. "I'm impressed."

Coulson shrugged. "It seemed like a dangerous idea to be late."

Natasha's smile was approving. "You're learning."

"I try."

She turned her gaze on Clint, standing awkwardly just behind Coulson's left shoulder. "You almost look like a gentleman. If we gave you a few more months, you might even convince me."

Clint brightened. "Really?"

"Probably not," Natasha said, "but you might be able to fool someone who hasn't had my training."

"Think I'll fool Doctor Odinson?"

She looked thoughtful. "Perhaps. Try not to talk, and remember not to put an entire scone in your mouth. It might be enough."

Clint was wearing one of Coulson's hats, a smart Homburg, instead of his bowler, and they had made an early morning excursion to find him a new suit that didn't scream "valet" in colour and cut. The result had made Coulson's breath catch when Clint emerged in it after lunch, because Natasha was right: he could pass for a gentleman, in appearance, at least. It sent a pang of guilt through Coulson's gut, seeing Clint look so dashing and knowing he could be so many things other than a valet.

He had to remind himself, firmly, that this was the best compromise; if Clint were anything else, they would never have been able to build a home together without the rest of the world knowing what they meant to each other. This life, as confusing and difficult as it felt, was better--safer--than most of the alternatives.

It was a life together, that was the important part. Everything else was only appearances.

They had barely sat down when Natasha straightened and her gaze focused on the door. Coulson followed it, in time to see Doctor Foster and Darcy enter on the arms of a man who made Coulson's eyes widen. He was huge, taller than anyone in the room, and his suit had been carefully tailored to contain his impressively wide shoulders and arms.

Coulson suspected he might actually have slightly more impressive arms than Clint, although he felt disloyal for even thinking it.

The man's hair was golden blond and he surveyed the room with a wide, pleased smile that said he was happy with everything and everyone he saw.

Darcy's eyes fell on them almost immediately, and a smile lit her face up when she saw Natasha. As usual, her tailored suit and shirtwaist were complimented by a stripy scarf, and the purple and green ribbons of a small rosette peeked out from under one end. She tugged her hand free and began walking towards them, muttering apologies to every hat she knocked aside in her eagerness to cross the room.

Doctor Foster detached from her companion's arm more reluctantly, and Coulson was startled to see a flush rising on her cheeks at something he said. He was even more startled to realise she was wearing an afternoon dress without a single ink stain or frayed cuff in sight. The dress even had a couple of flounces and her hat was, by Doctor Foster's standards, frivolously large, and decorated with a rose veil that matched her dress.

Darcy grinned when she reached their table. "I got her here!"

Natasha's tone was dry. "So I see."

"She's even wearing pretty girl clothes," Darcy said. "I found that in her wardrobe. I don't think she's worn it since she had her Season."

"I did wonder," Natasha said. "It's a few years out of date."

"Have you ever tried to make Doctor Jane Foster go shopping? She got panicked about coming here in the wrong clothes but she wouldn't go shopping, not even a tiny bit." Darcy straightened proudly. "I saved the day, as usual."

Natasha smiled and brushed her fingers over Darcy's arm, the closest she would ever get to a public display of affection. "You're very good at this."

"I really, really am."

"And modest, too," Natasha said, dryly.

Darcy rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. If she'd poked her tongue out, it wouldn't have surprised Coulson.

Doctor Foster negotiated the room of hats and tables with the same ease as the staff, but her companion distributed apologies as freely as smiles for each knocked feather and chair leg. They arrived at the table together and Doctor Foster's eyebrows shot up as she registered how many people sat there. Coulson stood, silently berating himself for forgetting his manners in the face of Darcey's cheerful greeting, and Clint scrambled to do the same.

"Darcy?" Doctor Foster asked.

Darcy shrugged. "What? So I forgot to mention who was going to be here. It's tea in a fancy hotel with tiny cakes and smoked salmon sandwiches--how often do we get to do this?"

Doctor Foster smiled apologetically. "I'm so sorry to intrude. When Darcy mentioned tea, I assumed it was going to be just us. If I'd realised we were getting in the way, I never would have let her talk us into this."

"I told her to ask you," Natasha said, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth that almost looked genuine. "We're all old friends here, aren't we? And you're more than welcome. It's the only afternoon this week I could possible manage to see you and meet your new friend."

Recalled her duty as companion to the new member of the group, Doctor Foster made the introductions, including introducing Clint as "Mr Barton" without a mention of his profession. She shot Coulson a curious look as they all sat, but she didn't give them away. Whatever Darcey had told Jane about this afternoon, it hadn't been anything close to the truth.

A waiter materialised at Natasha's elbow when everyone was seated and she gave orders--tea, cakes, and sandwiches for everyone, of course--and sent him on his way. An awkward silence fell.

The big blond man had been introduced as "Tho--Doctor Odinson", and he gazed around with a delighted smile, apparently oblivious to the tension in the group.

After a long pause, he turned to Coulson and asked, "How do you know Doctor Foster? She hasn't mentioned you before. I've heard Miss Lewis mention Lady Romanov before, but you are new to me."

His voice held a slight accent and it was too loud for the room. A couple of nearby matrons shot him annoyed glares, and Doctor Odinson ducked his head apologetically.

Before he could retract the question, Coulson offered him a small smile. "We have a mutual friend--Lady Carter. I believe she and Doctor Foster were at school together. Her father and mine were old friends, and she often invites me to her house parties."

"Ah." A look of relief crossed Doctor Odinson's face. "Doctor Foster has told me about Lady Carter. We have been invited to a party on her estate next week."

Doctor Foster nodded. "I hadn't planned to go, but she's got a lovely viewing platform on her roof, and Doctor Odinson has some observations he needs to make that might be easier there than in Greenwich."

It was the flimsiest excuse for a few days of fishing and good food Coulson had heard in a long time, but he didn't say anything, only smiled. Peggy had probably leapt at the chance to add a foreign scientist to her guest list. He spared a moment to wonder what her motive was--a party was never just a party for her--but the arrival of a waiter with a steam cart interrupted him and the thought dissolved.

The steam cart held pots of tea in one half, kept hot with steam from the boiler, and sandwiches and French pastries in the other half. They were chilled when the waiter pulled the plates out, and Coulson eyed the cart with interest. He hadn't realised anyone had developed a cooling mechanism this portable. Even the pots of clotted cream were cold, condensation collecting on their sides. Another waiter arrived with warm scones and pots of jam on tray carried high in the air, to avoid feathery contamination, and in the confusion of pouring and serving, both waiters disappeared before Coulson had time to quiz them about the cart.

Doctor Odinson laughed at something Natasha said, pulling Coulson's thoughts back into the moment.

"And then she pulled the lever," he said, between gasps of laughter, "and it fell!"

Doctor Foster was smiling broadly, her expression disturbingly affectionate, and even Darcy was chuckling. Natasha's smile was the polite one people wore when they were sure the story was supposed to be funny, but the joke was incomprehensible.

Doctor Odinson didn't notice, thankfully. "Doctor Foster was too kind to me, and she told them it was her fault, not mine. Luckily, they saw the humour in it."

Doctor Foster rolled her eyes. "It wasn't really Thor's fault. I should have told him the gears stick, instead of letting him find out on his own."

"Nay," Odinson said. "You were fair. I was crass and over-confident. I deserved to fail and the sooty covering was penance for my foolishness."

"Soot?" Natasha raised her eyebrow.

Darcy grinned. "You wouldn't believe how dirty the inside of a star projector gets, and he had to crawl inside to fix what he'd broken."

"Ah.

Out of the corner of his eye, Coulson noticed Clint watching the exchange with a fascinated expression, a half consumed scone forgotten on his plate. Coulson twitched his foot and tapped Clint's shoe.

Clint leaned closer and said, so softly no one else could hear, "She was right. The doc's in love."

Coulson checked, but Doctor Foster was staring at Odinson, paying no attention to them. "I noticed."

"It's weird."

"I know." Coulson glanced at her. "But she looks happy."

"That's what's so weird."

They exchanged smiles, but before Coulson could add anything else, Odinson's voice caught his attention.

"...my brother," Odinson finished, and Coulson cursed internally that he'd missed the rest of the sentence."

Natasha smiled. "You must be very close, to have come all this way to search for him."

For the first time, Odinson's smile disappeared, melting into a sickly grimace. "We were close, once. When we were children. He is my adopted brother, but he was my brother in spirit, too. We were allies and friends together, inseparable, and I hoped it would always be that way for us."

"But it wasn't?" Natasha said, with unusual gentleness.

Darcy was watching her with a look of naked adoration, almost painful in its intensity, and Coulson sighed. It was a look she could get away with, but if he looked at Clint in the same way, eventually someone would notice and remark on it, and then everything would fall down. He gave himself a mental shake and refocused.

"When we entered university, we began to grow apart." Odinson grimaced. "I discovered the science of the cosmos, the beauty of the universe and the physical laws that direct it, while he discovered politics and economics. Perhaps it was always destined to be this way, but as the years passed, our ambitions moved apart and now I do not know him, although he is still the brother of my heart."

Doctor Foster rested her hand on his forearm, although she probably wasn't aware she'd done it. "It's not your fault. People change. That's what happens when we grow up."

Odinson patted her hand, a soft smile warming his eyes as he looked at her. "It took me some time to accept this, but I know it now. Our father took longer, and he has still not fully accepted that I do not wish to inherit his company. That I wish to study, not trade. If he would accept this and let Loki take my place, everything would turn out well, I know it."

Coulson frowned. "What does your father's company do?"

"For three hundred years, we have been the best weapon-smiths in our home land," Odinson said. "We manufacture rifles, pistols, and larger artillery, although since my father took over, we have also diversified into ships and, lately, dirigibles."

"And your brother wanted to inherit the company?"

Odinson nodded. "He would be very good at it. He understands the business in a way I never could. I am a scientist, not a business man or a gun maker or a ship builder. Perhaps if we made scientific instruments...but no, even then, I would not be the right man to lead the company. Business is Loki's talent."

Natasha's gaze was sharp, but her voice was still gentle. "Why do you think he left?"

"He wants to prove to our father than he is a worthy successor," Odinson said. "Before he left, he talked of recovering family heirlooms that have been lost for many years. He thought that if he recovered them and discovered their secrets, our father would finally see he is the right choice to continue the family's legacy, even though he is not of our blood."

"Family heirlooms?" Coulson said. There was a thought nagging, but he couldn't pin it down. "Why would they prove he's the right man to take over your family's company?"

"According to family legend, they held great power. They were devices from a strange world, not our own, and the power contained within them could change the course of a war." Odinson tilted his head, looking thoughtful. "I never believed the stories, but Loki did. Or he wanted to, at least, and so he left our home to hunt for them. It's been six months and I have had no word from him in all that time, but two months ago, an old friend wrote to me and said he might be here. Perhaps Loki believes the devices are here, somewhere, too."

"Have you seen him?" Natasha asked.

Odinson shook his head. "I have heard rumours, hints that he may be somewhere in this city, but my hunt has been unsuccessful." A faint stain of red appeared on his throat. "I have not been as zealous in my hunt as I should have been, perhaps. There have been many distractions." He coughed. "Your observatory in Greenwich is very fine."

The blush on Doctor Foster's cheeks was so bright, it looked painful. "You've done everything you can."

"I can do more," Odinson said. "I must do more."

A nasty suspicion was forming in the back of Coulson's mind. "Can you describe the family heirlooms?" He tried to paste on a self-deprecating smile. "I have one or two friends who have an interest in old machines. They might have heard of them."

Natasha shot him a questioning look, but Coulson refused to meet her eyes and he tried to keep his expression mildly interested, without looking overly eager.

Odinson brightened anyway, a look of puppyish hope appearing. "Would you really help me?"

"If you can describe these heirlooms, I can ask my friends.

"One is a staff, around the length of my arm, gold set with a blue stone at one end. My grandfather's notes did not say what it did, only that it was not safe and should be stored inside a lead-lined casket."

Coulson made a mental note of that, both the casket and the mention of Odinson's grandfather doing research on the staff. They were more than family stories, then.

Odinson continued without seeming to notice the intensity of Coulson's gaze. "The other is more unusual: it appears to be a perfectly formed cube of blue quartz without any flaws, but it is supposed to glow in the centre. This cube is the most powerful of the heirlooms, and my grandfather's notes listed us as its guardians and safe-keepers rather than owners. He believed it could be used to create weapons of unmeasurable power, weapons he instructed us never to make. Loki may wish to recover the cube and manufacture a weapon, to prove to our father that he can lead the company to be not just the best in our home land, but the best in the world."

Coulson didn't dare look at Clint, but he could feel the tension radiating from Clint's body as Odinson's words sunk in.

Natasha smiled and picked up the teapot. "I'm sure that's enough detail for Mr Coulson to make inquiries with his friends. More tea? You must tell me more about this symposium you are speaking at on Saturday."

Odinson glanced down at his cup and pushed it forward as Doctor Foster launched into an excited description of the event, the papers they were both presenting, and then began demonstrating her latest theory using eclairs and a milllefeuille.

The conversation moved to safer topics, but Coulson barely paid any attention. He made appropriate noises when he sensed he should, while he mind raced around the possibilities of what he'd heard. Under the table, Clint's knee pressed against his, but even that couldn't make the worry churning in his stomach subside.

Eventually, the party broke up and he followed everyone out to the street, where Doctor Foster, Odinson, and Darcy climbed into the back of a steam cab, and Natasha's private steam car waited at the curb. Clint raised his hand to hail a cab--horse-drawn--and Natasha moved to Coulson's side with apparent casualness.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" she asked, her lips barely moving and her voice low.

He pursed his lips. "Not yet."

"Coulson..."

"Not yet," he repeated, "but soon. Very soon."

"I'll hold you to that," Natasha said, and her tone was clearly a threat more than a promise.

# 

Chapter Eight

_London, October 1, 1908_

Coulson didn't wait for Jarvis to announce him; he pushed straight past the butler and stormed down the hallway to Stark's workshop. Behind him, he could hear Clint murmuring apologies, but he didn't stop. Not even when Pepper called his name as he passed an open doorway.

The acrid smell of solder filled Coulson's lungs when he threw the workshop door open. Stark was bent over one of his benches, his nose dangerously close to the soldering iron he was wielding on a tiny gadget.

"Can't talk, too busy, Pep," he said, without looking up. "If it's about those papers, put them somewhere and I'll sign them later."

"It's not about your signature," Coulson said, and folded his arms over his chest.

He heard Clint and Pepper squeeze through the door, felt the moment Clint moved to stand just behind his right shoulder, but he refused to look around. All his attention was fixed on Stark.

Slowly, Stark straightened. His eyes were hidden behind his safety goggles, but a puzzled frown creased his forehead. "Coulson? What's going on?"

"Where did you get the Blue Stone?" Coulson said. "The truth, this time."

Stark turned off his soldering iron and dropped it in its cradle. He raised his goggles and tilted his head. "I told you the truth. I inherited it from my father."

"Where did he get it?"

"He found it."

"Where?"

Stark's frown deepened. "Why does it matter? You're starting to worry me. Barton, have you been putting funny stuff in his coffee?"

"I would never!" Clint said.

"Tony, just answer them," Pepper said, sounding exasperated. "What do you have to hide?"

"A lot of things!"

"About this?"

Tony scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's important," Coulson said. "It could be change everything we know about its theft."

"What do you know?"

Coulson sighed. "Just tell me. Where did your father find the Blue Stone?"

"In my grandfather's safe," Tony said, reluctance clear in every syllable. "After he died, my father had to go through his effects. I remember him coming home with the Stone. I was four years old, and my father stared at it for hours before he locked it in a drawer and took it to his bank the next day. It was the first time I'd ever seen a deposit box."

"This was in New York?" Coulson asked.

Stark nodded. "Dad didn't know where my grandfather got it, I swear, and I didn't see it again until I was going through his effects and found it in the deposit box."

"Did anyone know you had it?"

"Just me and Pepper." Stark frowned. "And Stane. He was there when I opened the deposit box, but I didn't tell him it was what I'd used in the _Iron Heart_. Nobody outside this room knows I unlocked its power."

Coulson's legs went shaky as the frantic energy that had driven him across town drained away. He took a few steps forward and leaned on the nearest workbench, his stomach churning. He felt Clint move closer, reach out for him, but Clint pulled back at the last minute and simply stood, close enough to warm him by his presence.

"What do you know?" Stark asked.

"I think I know where the Stone came from," Coulson said, his voice low. "And I might know who stole it."

Pepper's skirts rustled as she hurried forward and put a hand on Coulson's shoulder. "But that's a good thing...isn't it? Why do you look so worried?"

Coulson raised his head, looking into Pepper's concerned eyes for a moment before switching his focus back to Stark. "If your thief is who I think he is, I suspect he's trying to find a way to use it. That's why we haven't found any trace of it: he's not planning to sell it, he's experimenting. How long did it take you to learn how to make it power the _Iron Heart_?"

"Months," Stark said. "Months to figure out how to access its power, anyway. After that, it was easy." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Maybe too easy."

Clint tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Stark snapped.

"Tony!" Pepper frowned. "This isn't their fault."

Stark's lips tightened, but he gave a jerky nod. "I'm just thinking out loud. Probably doesn't mean anything. It's just...when I was trying to build the interface with the _Iron Heart_ 's systems, I thought it would take weeks. It had taken so long to figure out how to access the power, I assumed it would take almost as long to build an interface that would regulate the power, but it worked on the second try. Nothing ever works that easily! I've been trying to make the new engine work for weeks, and I still can't get the regulation stable, but I did it with the Stone in a couple of days. At the time, I thought it was just because I was that good. Now I'm not so sure."

Worry tightened Coulson's stomach, and he began to regret the second scone Natasha had insisted he take. "How much power can it release?"

Stark spread his hands. "I don't know. More than we can imagine."

"And it let you put it into a carriage without frying any of the gearing," Coulson said.

"When you say it like that, it does sound unlikely," Stark admitted.

"You said it could level a city," Coulson said. "What could it do if someone used it to create a new type of weapon?"

"Nothing good. That's why I didn't tell Stane about it--he would have wanted to reopen the weapons division immediately with the Stone as our new muse." Stark's eyes narrowed. "Who has it?"

"If I'm right? A man who wants to use it to build a new class of weapons, to put his company on the map." Coulson's lips twisted. "The bidding war would be incredible, and whoever bought them would have to test them the moment they found an excuse."

"Shii-iit," Clint breathed. "You think Doctor Odinson's cube is Stark's Stone?"

"And that makes the thief his brother," Coulson said. "I don't know how he found out about the Stone, but if it's not him, I'll eat my hat. Which just leaves us with two questions."

"Only two?" Stark said.

Coulson nodded. "Where has he holed up to do his experiments, and does he have the other heirloom?"

"Odinson never said what it did," Clint said. "Although, if the cube is this bad, it's probably pretty fucking scary."

"I have a third question," Pepper said. "How do we stop him?"

***

Coulson was eating a last slice of toast at breakfast the next morning when he turned to the classified ads and almost choked on a crumb.

"Are you all right?" Clint asked, looking concerned.

"Fine," Coulson said. He took a deep gulp of lukewarm coffee to clear his throat. "We simply appear to be in the middle of an 'if it rains, it pours' situation."

Clint frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I have been summoned," Coulson said, flicking the page of the newspaper. "My contact with the street children has information he needs to tell me, in person, which means it must be important. Or too much for a coded newspaper advert."

"Or both," Clint said. "What do you think he has?"

"If we're lucky, a clue that will tell us where Odinson's brother has hidden with the cube."

"But we're never that lucky."

Coulson grimaced. "It's more likely that he'll have something new to throw a spanner into everything. A couple of weeks ago, all I had was a small theft to investigate. Now, the small theft has snowballed into a potentially devastating catastrophe with an ambitious man's plans on the line, which makes it far more dangerous than when it was simply someone stealing a jewel they probably couldn't use."

"Maybe Billy will have heard rumours about this staff Doctor Odinson was talking about," Clint suggested, with far more cheerfulness than Coulson felt was appropriate.

Coulson glowered at his toast. "With the way this is going, he'll have heard exactly that and it will be in the hands of someone I wouldn't trust with an automated toasting machine, never mind a device as powerful as Odinson hinted at."

Clint considered that idea carefully. "You're right. It's going to be exactly something like that. Maybe I should go with you, just in case Billy's planning to lead you straight to it and make you fix everything on the spot."

***

The alley stank as foully as ever when Coulson entered it soon after dark. After a debate that lasted all day, Clint had finally given up the idea of being at his side for the meeting, but he'd insisted on haunting the rooftop. Coulson deliberately didn't look up; if Billy suspected there was someone up there, he would never appear. Even though Billy knew Coulson had an accomplice these days, he refused to meet Clint.

In his position, Coulson probably would have done the same. Billy operated in a shady world where anyone could turn on him, and his little coterie were in constant danger from do-good officials as much as the other gangs of the city. One gang of kids had been caught last year by a group of people who claimed to be rescuing them. Most of the kids had been sent to orphanages that were little better than workhouses. They would probably be sent to workhouses as soon as they were old enough. The older ones were still rotting in prison and would stay there for a long time. Coulson didn't know which option was worse for them; the children in the orphanages would be educated a little, but what good did a crude understanding of writing and figuring do them when they were destined for workhouses? At least the ones in prison were given the honest truth about their future, as awful as it was.

Coulson understood why Billy would only deal with him all too well.

He pulled the brim of his hat lower and made sure his mask covered his face. Billy had seen him unmasked a few times, years ago, before they both became more wary, but taking precautions made both of them feel better. In the distance, laughter and voices floated through the night for a moment before being cut off. A pub door, no doubt.

"Evening, guv," Billy said, appearing from behind a stack of crates at the end of the alley. "Fancy meeting a toff like you 'ere, so late."

Coulson snorted. "Very funny."

"If you can't be pretty, you got to have something."

"Fair point," Coulson said. "You didn't summon me to tell jokes, though."

The faint light from the streetlights didn't illuminate much, but it showed enough. Billy's shoulders slumped for a moment before he straightened and raised his chin. "No, guv, I didn't. You know I never see you if it ain't big."

"I know. What's wrong?"

"Reckon there's trouble brewing," Billy said. "Bigger trouble 'n what you told me."

Coulson felt his own shoulders rising as a knot of tension knotted at the base of his neck. "It's possible. I've learned a few things since we last talked."

Billy nodded. "I've learned a thing or two likewide. Such as, there are people with blue eyes burgling and murdering folks."

"Murdering?" Coulson said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. "I hadn't heard that."

"Don't reckon anyone's talking much about that yet," Billy said. "But I 'eard it from a reliable source. Raid on a ware'ouse last night. They stoled some stuff--machine stuff--and bashed the guard's 'ead in until 'e croaked. Didn't bother to look for the messenger boy asleep in the corner. Just nicked all the shit they wanted and left the body."

Coulson sighed. "Let me guess, the boy is one of yours?"

Billy shrugged. "If 'e weren't really mine before, 'e's mine now. Scared out of 'is wits and don't want to talk to anyone, specially anyone with a uniform. All 'e told me was the eyes. Bright blue, seemed to glow in the dark. And I've 'eard other people talking about eyes, too. Done a couple of other burglaries, and they always know what they're after."

"I've seen them," Coulson said, after only a moment's hesitation. Billy probably knew already. "I don't know what's causing it, but people aren't wrong about the eyes. It's unsettling. The thieves I found also seemed much stronger than they should be."

Billy swept off his cap and scratched his head. "I 'eard one of the thefts was done by kids. You know anything about that?"

"I may."

"Only..." For the first time. Billy's air of supreme self-confidence melted, and Coulson was reminded that for all his big talk, Billy wasn't much older than his kids. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen at most, and he'd been responsible for a dozen children or more at a time since he was ten. "I 'eard other gangs lost kids. I got a mate up Whitechapel way, said 'is lot were whispering about the Ripper being back. Except the kids ain't ripped, they're just...gone. And now there're kids with glowing blue eyes nicking stuff, and that's a big coincidence, ain't it? Kids going missing just as kids with blue eyes start burgling?"

"It could be coincidence," Coulson said. "Although it does seem unlikely. I surprised a couple of thieves a few nights ago. They were young."

"Young enough to be Sparks and Doc?"

"Maybe," Coulson admitted. "But if there are others missing, it might not be them."

Billy shrugged.

Coulson nodded. Billy wouldn't believe his kids were safe until he saw them. "Do you know where their base of operations is?"

"Them what are burgling and murdering?" Billy put his cap on and positioned it carefully. "Might do."

"Can you tell me?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

Billy pointed upward. "On what your friend up there is pointing at me, and what 'e's going to do if 'e don't like what I tell you."

"He's got a bow and arrow," Coulson said. "And he'll only shoot you if you try to hurt me. You have my word on that."

"If you say so." Billy paused for a long moment, before drawing a deep breath. "I can show you, but that's it. That's all. I ain't showing you the way in or 'anging around or nothing. I got kids to think about, you know? Sparks and Doc might be there, they might not, but I can't get meself killed 'elping you and leave all of them on their own."

"I understand," Coulson said. "I told you not to do anything dangerous, didn't I? This qualifies as dangerous. Show us the building and we'll take it from there."

"Promise me something," Billy said.

"What?"

"If Sparks and Doc are there, or any other kids what need my kind of 'elp, don't let some do-gooder get to 'em?"

"If I find any of them," Coulson said, "I'll make sure they're safe. I won't let them be taken anywhere they might be hurt. I'll get them back to you if I can, and if I can't, I'll do everything in my power to help them."

"You're a toff," Billy said. "You got power I ain't never going to 'ave, no matter what secrets I find."

"But there are things I can't do."

"Reckon you can do more than most." Billy nodded and pulled his cap down on his brow. "Right. It's a deal. Won't even charge you for this one. Come on, guv. Time's a-wasting."

Coulson glanced up and caught a flicker of movement at the edge of a roof. He followed Billy, knowing without having to glance back that Clint was ghosting above on the tiles and wouldn't let anything happen to them.

# 

Chapter Nine

_London, October 2, 1908_

Coulson expected Billy to lead them to a warehouse, somewhere around the docks; it would be the sensible place for a man to hole up with a group of men and children who were stealing and, possibly, killing for what they needed to support his experiments. No one would notice men walking in and out with machine parts, or odd noises, or strange lights.

It was a surprise, therefore, when Billy lead the way to a shabby house in a genteelly poor part of Bloomsbury. They hid in an alley across the street, hidden in the shadows, and watched while a distant clock tolled the hours. One...two...three o'clock, and everything inside the house was still and silent. Not a flicker of light, not a sound. If Billy hadn't insisted this was the right house, Coulson would not have believed anything strange was happening inside. It looked exactly like its neighbours: dark and ordinary, the kind of house where a formerly well-to-do family might live while they waited for their fortunes to turn.

Or where a Swedish university professor might live with his wards.

With a start, Coulson realised they were only a few streets away from the house where Doctor Foster and Doctor Selvig lived with Darcy. If Doctor Odinson's brother was indeed using this house as his base of operations, it was a small miracle they hadn't run into each other. Either Odinson rarely visited Doctor Foster at home, which seemed unlikely, or his brother was taking steps to deliberately avoid him.

Coulson glanced up and caught a flicker of movement above him. Clint was still there, watching the house with them. It was comforting to know he was there, unseen, and Coulson sometimes wondered how he'd ever done any of this without him.

Or at least, he knew, but he'd begun to dislike remembering. What had always seemed a good, fulfilling existence now felt desperately empty when he thought about it. Clint had burst into his life and slipped into his heart before Coulson knew what was happening, and now he was as necessary as air or water. A world where Clint didn't greet him with a crooked smile and a confused offer of coffee in the morning was unimaginable. They might be struggling to find the right boundaries in their lives together, but Coulson was confident they would find the balance eventually.

"Guv," Billy hissed, pointing.

Coulson pulled himself out of his introspection and refocused on the door across the street, where a small figure was trotting up the steps. At this distance, it was impossible to make out more than a general shape; dressed in loose clothes with a cap pulled hiding their hair, all Coulson could tell was that they were young. Hunched shoulders and a furtive look over the shoulder betrayed their fear, and Coulson noted the flapping, empty bag hanging from one shoulder. If the child had been sent out to steal tonight, the mission had been unsuccessful.

The door opened and the child scurried inside, head ducked low. Coulson tried not to, but he couldn't help following the child in his imagination. Following to a darkened room where a shadowy figure asked where the night's loot was, and the child held up an empty bag and...

He forced the thought away.

"I got to go," Billy said, his voice so low it barely carried to Coulson's ear. "That one ain't one o'mine, but you see I'm right, don't you? This is the right place."

"It looks to be," Coulson said.

"Remember what I said?"

"I'll make sure any children are as safe as I can," Coulson said. "And I'll try to find Sparks and Doc if they're in there. I'll keep watching for a while."

Billy's nodded. "You'll make a plan, right? Get everyone out safe and sound?"

"When I know what they're doing," Coulson said, "I'll do everything I can to keep everyone safe. You have my word on that."

"Can't say fairer than that, I guess."

He melted away into the shadows before Coulson could respond. A minute later, there was a soft thud just behind him, and Coulson felt the warm presence of Clint's body press close against his shoulder.

"What are you thinking, boss?" Clint said.

"I don't know yet," Coulson said. "I have some suspicions, but no proof."

"You're going to keep watching?"

"I am."

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know yet. The missing piece. There has to be a part we're missing that will connect all of this together, but I don't have it yet. It's there, just out of reach, and I need it."

"Guess we're not going home until you have it, then."

Coulson didn't reply. He didn't know what to say; the dawn would force them home eventually, and they both knew it.

The sky was just beginning to lighten on the horizon when the door opened again, spilling golden light down the steps onto the pavement. A tall, thin figure was silhouetted against it for a moment, before the door swung shut behind him. He trotted down the steps, tugging a dark Homburg hat into place over unfashionably long, black hair. As he passed under a gas lamp, Coulson squinted to make out details. The man's face was pale and thin, with an aristocratic nose and full lips that held a hint of a sneer lurking at the corners of his mouth. His coat was well-cut, expensive, and he wore a bright green scarf tied loosely around his neck.

He carried a walking stick with a golden handle, an affectation that only white-haired old man still used, and Coulson frowned. There was a blue jewel set into the handle, barely visible except where the light caught it between his fingers. Why was a young man carrying such an out-dated accessory?

The man strode quickly out of sight and Coulson drew back, away from the mouth of the alley.

"He looks a bit rich for this neighbourhood," Clint said.

"You noticed that?" Coulson sighed. "I am starting to have some very nasty suspicions about this."

"Time to call in reinforcements?"

"If you're asking whether it's time for me to talk to Fury," Coulson said, "then I think it is."

"Before he yells at you for keeping secrets again," Clint said, with a hint of warm amusement.

"I miss the days when you couldn't point things like that out to me," Coulson said.

Clint made a rude noise. "No, you don't. Because those were the days when I couldn't take you home and pin you to a bed after the inspector pretended to yell at you. Just in case you need some extra motivation, you know?"

Coulson's traitorous imagination provided some graphic thoughts on what Clint might do after the pinning. He was embarrassed to realise he was already trying to work out the quickest way to catch Fury up on everything that had happened so he could get home with Clint faster.

***

The hour was early for socially acceptable visiting, but the advantage of being old friends was that politeness didn't always matter and formality wasn't always necessary. When Coulson knocked on Fury's front door, the man who opened it frowned down his nose but didn't raise an objection when Coulson asked for Fury. In fact, all he did was narrow his eyes at Clint, who was projecting "innocent valet" with every inch of his being, and beckon them both inside.

Coulson experienced a moment's gratitude that Clint had talked him into a quick detour to the flat to change; it had seemed like a waste of time, but now Fury's warnings about the new commissioner flooded back. There was nothing suspicious about an old friend calling for breakfast, but two men in dark clothes, with masks around their necks and a case that could easily hold a bow and quiver? If anyone was watching Fury's house, either observation would instantly cause them all problems.

As expected, Clint was ushered down to the kitchen for his breakfast. Fury didn't have a large staff--only a butler-slash-valet, a cook, and a maid--but they would have all the gossip and it was always worth cultivating those contacts, even if there was no obvious need for it yet. Coulson was shown to the breakfast room, where Fury was dining with his sister.

Fury's eye widened when he saw Coulson in the doorway, but he recovered quickly, and a broad grin chased away the surprise. "Phil! Has Barton's cooking finally driven you to my door?"

Coulson shrugged. "He's not that bad."

"Hmm." Fury gestured with a fork. "He hasn't mastered kedgeree yet, though. Go on, fill a plate and sit down." He nodded to the woman sitting across the table from him. "You know Sylvie, don't you?"

Coulson dipped his head in polite acknowledgement before moving to the sideboard and beginning to load up his plate. The kedgeree did smell good.

Sylvie Fury smiled. "We've met often enough, Nick. Thank you."

She was a pretty young woman, more than a decade younger than Fury, and she'd inherited the wicked grin her brother occasionally sported. Her thick hair was caught up with a dozen pins into the closest approximation of a pompadour it would hold, and she was dressed fashionably, if simply. Over the years, a few suitors had braved society's censure and approached Fury for permission to marry her, but Sylvie had sent every one of them away. Coulson had private suspicions about Sylvie's inclinations and her close friendships with other women over the years, but he'd always kept his own counsel. If her preferences did lie that way, it was her secret to keep, and although it wasn't strictly illegal for women, neither of them would want to put Fury in a difficult position by admitting it aloud. His position was already strained enough with the secrets he had to pretend he didn't know for Coulson.

Fury waited until Coulson was sitting with a loaded plate and a steaming cup of coffee before saying, "What brings you here, Phil? It can't just be my cook's talents."

Coulson shot Sylvie a sideways glance. "We should probably talk in private."

"Pointless." Fury waved a forkful of bacon. "Sylvie knows everything."

Sylvie grinned. "I really hope Nick is better at lying to everyone outside this room, because I can tell when he's hiding something, and he always spills the dirt eventually."

Coulson found himself chuckling. "He's impossible to read most of the time."

"That's just because nobody knows his tells."

"He has some?"

"You don't learn to play cards from a man without learning his tells eventually," Sylvie said.

"It's a good thing we don't let women into the clubs," Fury said. "She'd ruin every lordling and minister in five minutes."

Sylvie glowered. "Society has a lot of stupid rules."

"I know someone who would agree with you on that," Coulson said, thinking of Darcy and her "Votes for Women" rosettes. "Perhaps I shouldn't introduce you, though."

"We wouldn't get on?"

"You'd get on far too well, and then society would fall."

Sylvie laughed. "I think I need to meet this person."

Coulson shot an apologetic glance at Fury. "I'll take that under consideration."

"Cut the chatter, Phil," Fury said, his eye narrowing. "What's so urgent you had to interrupt my breakfast?"

Coulson pushed some kedgeree around his plate while he tried to organise his thoughts. Throughout the journey here, he had been having an internal debate--fight, really--about how much he could tell Fury. There were too many secrets at stake, secrets he had no right to reveal, but if he didn't betray some of them, he would have to keep important details from Fury. And that had too much potential for ruin: he was starting to see the general shape of what might be happening, and it was taking a terrifying form.

Fury made an irritated sound over the delay. "Spit it out. Nothing will go beyond these walls if it shouldn't."

"Have there been any more of those thefts?" Coulson asked. "The ones committed by people with glowing eyes?"

Fury's jaw tightened. "Yes. What do you know?"

"I may know their base of operation."

Choosing his words carefully, Coulson outlined what he'd learned from Billy and sketched in the details of the house they'd watched. Told aloud, without any other context, it felt strangely hollow and unthreatening. A house where a few thieves with glowing blue eyes came and went--how bad could it be, even if their eyes were unnatural?

Sylvie tilted her head when Coulson's story ended, her eyes narrowing in an expression that was unnervingly similar to her brother's one-eyed interrogating look. "There's more, isn't there? You're keeping something back. I know your tells as well as I know Nick's."

Coulson nodded slowly. "If I tell you, I'm breaking confidences people trusted me with."

Fury scowled. "Which is more important--their secrets, or the consequences of keeping them? The fact that you're here, right now, tells me everything I need to know about those consequences."

"If I'm wrong about this," Coulson said, "I'll lose some good friends when they find out I've told you."

"So make sure they don't find out." Fury's pointed with his knife. "Talk."

Telling Fury and Sylvie about Stark's Blue Stone, Odinson's brother, and their connection was easier than Coulson had expected. It was as though, once he'd made the decision to reveal one secret, the floodgates opened and the rest just flowed out in a tumbling rush. Fury listened without interruption or any change of expression, even when Coulson explained the nature of the Blue Stone and its terrible power.

When Coulson finished, there was a moment's silence before Sylvie said, "What does the staff do?"

"Doctor Odinson doesn't know."

Sylvie pursed her lips. "Could it be what was stolen from the British Museum in August?"

Fury frowned. "Possibly."

Coulson leaned forward. "I didn't hear anything about a theft at the British Museum."

"You wouldn't have," Fury said. "It was kept out of the papers. They had a new exhibit opening, and they didn't want anyone to lose confidence in their security arrangements. The golden sceptre was the only thing stolen, from a storeroom, and they doubled the number of guards after. It's not like the thief took the Rosetta Stone or anything well known. It was a small artefact and they weren't even sure of its provenance."

"Which was why it was in a storeroom instead of on display?" Coulson asked.

Fury nodded. "Most of its value was in the gold and the gem in the tip. They didn't know where it came from, how it got to the museum, or what it was. The only thing they could tell me was that it was old and heavy, and the thief probably took it because it wasn't locked down and the gold would be easy to melt and sell."

"Do you have a photograph of it?" Coulson asked. "I could show it to Doctor Odinson. He might be able to confirm whether its the missing heirloom."

"I have something in my study."

Sylvie frowned thoughtfully. "You think Doctor Odinson's brother stole both the Blue Stone and this sceptre. That makes sense. But why do you think those thefts are connected to this house and the people with glowing blue eyes?"

"It could be coincidence," Coulson said.

"But you don't think so." Sylvie's eyes narrowed. "Your blue-eyed thieves are stealing tools and machine parts. Doctor Odinson's brother needs to prove the Blue Stone can be used as a weapon. You think he's behind the thefts, and he's building...something for the Blue Stone to power."

Coulson nodded reluctantly. "I could be wrong."

Fury sighed. "You rarely are."

"What I don't understand is why the thieves are working for him--at least two of the children weren't thieves before this."

"I'd like to know why their eyes glow," Sylvie said. "If there isn't a connection between their behaviour and their eyes, I'll eat my best hat."

Fury sat back in his chair. "What I'm most concerned about is what this man is building and whether it's a danger to my city. We survived automatons by the skin of our teeth, but a weapon with the power Odinson and Stark are talking about could raze it to the ground. I won't let that happen. Not while I have any way to stop it."

Coulson nodded, feeling the knot of tension churning in his stomach start to loosen a little. Fury would know what to do. He was used to dealing with problems of this magnitude. The masked vigilante was better suited to the small disasters in life, not the city- or country-destroying ones.

"What do we do?" Sylvie asked.

"You'll do nothing," Fury said.

Sylvie glared. "I won't bloody do nothing."

"All that money I spent on finishing school was wasted, wasn't it?"

She shrugged. "Only if you think teaching spoiled little rich girls a few things about the world was a waste."

Fury rolled his eye. "If you try to interfere, I'll send you to stay with our cousins. I might do that anyway, just in case."

"If you try, I'll run away," Sylvie said. "I'm of age. You can't control me any more, Nick. I won't interfere, but I won't hide away. I want to be here, where I know what's happening and don't need to rely on the papers to find out whether London is still standing."

Fury grunted, but Coulson could see the fondness in his eye. Sylvie would be staying exactly where she was, and if she didn't start a campaign to be introduced to Darcy and Natasha, Coulson would eat his own hat.

"We can't move on that house without an evidence," Fury said. "We don't know what's happening in there, or what kind of weapon they're building. We're not even sure they're building one." He held up a hand to cut of Coulson's protest. "I agree, it's too much for coincidence, but the new commissioner is breathing down my neck and he won't authorise any kind of raid without some kind of evidence."

"I can trying to get something," Coulson said, his mind already racing through plans.

Fury shook his head. "No offence, Phil, but you're the last person I can take evidence from. Unless you want me to unmask you to the commissioner?"

Coulson sighed. If it was just him...but there was Clint, too. Coulson might be able to use his money and position to get out of any serious trouble, but he wouldn't be able to shield Clint, too. Sir Henry wanted blood, wanted his streets free of vigilantes, and Clint would be the perfect sacrifice for him.

"We can't afford it," Coulson said.

"Damn right we can't," Fury said. "And you can't use your Russian friend, either. We're going to have to do this the legal way for now. I've got some men I can trust to be discrete. They'll watch the house for a few days and we'll see what shakes out."

Coulson grimaced. "We're losing time. Odinson's brother could finish building his device in that time."

"It's a risk we'll have to take." Fury lips twisted into a snarl. "My men are good. If they see anything, we'll be ready to move."

"Isn't there anything I can do?" Coulson asked.

Fury narrowed his eye, but after a moment, he sighed. "I'll make sure Barnes and Rogers get the night shifts. If you really have to do something, you can watch with them. Don't let them see your face, and try not to talk too much. I'll warn them you might be joining them."

"Can they be trusted?"

"I'd trust them with my life," Fury said. "I'd trust them with Sylvie's life. I'd trust them with our secrets."

Coulson nodded. "Good enough for me."

Sylvie smiled. "I've met them. They know how to keep secrets."

Fury's eye narrowed. "Is there anything I should be worried about?"

Sylvie's expression was all innocence as she reached for Fury's plate. "Of course not, Nick. Now, I think it's time for Phil to go home before he falls over." She raised her eyebrows. "You look like hell. When was the last time you slept?"

Fury groaned and muttered something about useless finishing schools.

***

Coulson tried to sleep when they finally got back to the flat, but the bright midday sun peeking around the edges of the curtains refused to let his body be fooled into slumber. Even Clint's warmth curled around his back couldn't defeat his instincts; it was daytime, not night, and gentlemen did not sleep the day away.

Or at least, that's the lie he told himself. His inability to sleep had nothing to do with what he'd learned over the last couple of days or the conversation he'd had with Fury.

"I can feel you thinking," Clint said, his voice heavy with sleepiness. "It's distracting."

Coulson sighed. "Sorry. I'll try to stop."

The bed shifted behind him and Clint's hand gently pulled him over, onto his back, where he couldn't hide from Clint's gaze. Even in the dim light, Clint's sharp eyes missed nothing.

"You're feeling guilty," Clint said.

Reluctantly, Coulson nodded. Every time he started to slip into sleep, his brain replayed the moment when he'd made the decision to give up Stark's and Odinson's secrets.

Clint tilted his head. His hand still rested on Coulson's shoulder, warm and solid, the only place on Coulson's body that didn't feel like ice. "You know you did the right thing, don't you?"

"Did I?" Coulson stared up at the ceiling, half-hidden in shadow. "They told me things in confidence, and I broke that trust the moment things got difficult. If I did it so easily, what's to stop me doing it again? To someone I care about?"

Clint's fingers tightened on Coulson's shoulder for a moment, before relaxing. "You mean, what's to stop you throwing me to the wolves one day?"

Coulson nodded.

"Nothing, I guess." Clint shrugged. "That's a risk I chose the day I kissed you."

"I thought I kissed you."

"Pretty sure I was the one--"

"It was mutual."

"Let's go with that," Clint said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But like I said, that's a risk I chose. You could throw me out. You could throw me to the wolves. You could throw me to the _police_."

Coulson turned his head on the pillow, meeting Clint's eyes. "I'd never do that. Any of that. You mean...too much to me."

Clint's lips curved in a smile. "Aw, sir--"

Coulson winced. "I thought we banned that word in bed."

"It just slipped out," Clint said, far too innocently.

"Really."

"Really!"

Coulson narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to distract me."

"I'm trying to stop you falling into a guilt pit," Clint said. "Is it working yet?"

More than Coulson wanted to admit, but he pushed that thought aside. "I'm not sure I deserve to be saved from the guilt pit. Stark didn't want the information about his Blue Stone to get out. Doctor Odinson probably expected what he told us to be in confidence. A gentleman is supposed to be above idle gossip and rumour--"

He broke off as Clint made a rude sound.

"Phil. What you did wasn't idle, gossipy, or rumour-y. Shut up, I know that's not a word and that's not the point right now." Clint's hand on Coulson's shoulder moved, sliding under his pyjama jacket collar to rest just below his collarbone, the rough skin burning hot against Coulson's chilled skin. "You weighed the consequences, I know you did. You weighed them up, asked yourself all the right questions, and then you talked to Inspector Fury because this is too big for us to fix on our own. If Stark had asked you not to tell anyone about the automatons marching on Whitehall, would you have? So how is this any different?"

Coulson opened his mouth, but Clint didn't let him get a word in.

"If someone dies because you didn't tell Inspector Fury what you knew, how guilty would you feel? It would tear you apart. You're doing the right thing and you know it, even if it doesn't feel like it right now. We'll go and check on the guys Fury has watching the house tonight and you'll see I'm right."

"How are you so sure?"

Clint leaned down to press a kiss on the corner of Coulson's mouth. His lips barely made contact, but electric thrills danced over Coulson's skin in their wake. "Because I love you, and I trust you, and that makes me a better judge than you are right now."

"What would I do without you?" Coulson asked, lifting a hand to cup Clint's jaw.

Clint's sharply indrawn breath was audible, but his voice was steady when he said, "You'll never have to find out, if I have anything to do with it."

Coulson tried to find a response, but words escaped him. Instead, he slid his hand around to the back of Clint's neck and pulled him down into a kiss, plunging into his mouth and trying to express everything he needed to say through lips and tongue and teeth. Clint made a soft sound at the back of his throat and returned the kiss with fervour, his solid weight pressing Coulson into the bed in exactly the right way, and no more words were needed for a long time.

# 

Chapter Ten

_London, October 6, 1908_

Coulson pulled himself over the garden wall and dropped lightly to the ground. A soft thump beside him, barely audible, was the only sound that betrayed Clint as he did the same. Clouds hid the moon, and the soft glow of street lights was too distant to penetrate the darkness. Coulson didn't need to see him to know Clint was grinning, his eyes alight with exertion and the thrill of the challenge. This was what they were good at, these moments when all they had in front of them was their target and silent shadows to hide in as they approached.

Above them, the house loomed against the starless sky. The windows were dark, no sign of movement, exactly as they should be tonight. Coulson turned slightly, to reassure himself that Clint's familiar shape was beside him, before he began the silent, darting run to the kitchen door. Rubber soles made no sound on the grass, and the owners had planted trees that provided perfect shadowy cover for enterprising men who needed to approach unseen. The trees probably provided delightful shade on a hot afternoon, too, but as far as Coulson was concerned, they made the house unnecessarily vulnerable. One tree even had branches stretching up to a first floor window, ideal for a limber cat-burglar--or a young person who determined to escape their parents' watchful eye. Coulson had used branches like those a few times when he was a young man, itching to break a few rules and get drunk in a barn with like-minded friends.

He had also heard of at least one young woman who had used branches like that to elope with an inappropriate lover. A couple of times, he had even received requests to track down and return young women who had done it.

The masked vigilante had, anyway. Stuffy, conservative Mr Philip Coulson would never receive those requests.

He had turned down each one. If a woman wanted to chose her future, he refused to interfere, even if her choice was a bad one. He kept an eye on the women, though, to make sure they remained free to make bad choices and live with the consequences. So far, both the women he'd been asked to retrieve appeared to be happily married with young families, and their fathers had slowly grown to accept their choice of husbands.

At the kitchen door, Coulson pulled out his lock-picks and set to work. It only took a few seconds before the tumblers shifted, not even enough time for Clint to make suggestive remarks. 

Coulson pushed the door open and made an "after you" gesture. Clint brushed past him as he went in, even though the door was more than wide enough, and Coulson smiled behind his mask. The only thing he missed about the house on Walden Square was Clint's enthusiastic appreciation for his lock-picking skills at the end of a long night; it had almost become a tradition, breaking into his own house and barely making it past the kitchen table before Clint demonstrated how much he enjoyed watching Coulson work. Sneaking up to the flat wasn't quite the same, although he wouldn't give up the ability to wake up with Clint in his arms every morning for any number of kitchen floor blow jobs.

The kitchen was dark, but Coulson pulled out his tiny wind-up electric light after he pulled the door shut and checked the windows were covered. Clint didn't unsling his bow from around his shoulders as he crept across the room to the door, but Coulson caught a glimpse of metal in his hand. A knife, ready for use if anything unexpected appeared. Coulson pulled out his own length of lead piping and followed.

They moved silently down the hallway and stepped carefully to avoid the creaky step as they went upstairs. Most of the rooms were dark, but a soft glow around the door at the end of the corridor betrayed the house's occupants. Clint glanced over his shoulder, searching Coulson's eyes for a moment, before he nodded and moved to the door.

It opened before he was close enough to touch the handle, and Coulson sighed. One day, he would succeed on sneaking up on them. One day.

Fury was right: Rogers and Barnes were his best men.

The figure silhouetted in the light had wide shoulders, one slightly misshapen under his dark blue coat. "Are you ever going to stop trying to sneak up on us?"

"Never," Clint said.

"You know I used to do it for a living, don't you?" the man said. "I know every trick."

Clint shrugged. "I got taught by one of the best. Pretty sure I'll find a trick you don't know eventually."

"Can't stop you trying, I guess." The man gestured. "Come on in."

Coulson followed Clint inside and closed the door. It had been a bedroom before Fury paid the owners to take a holiday in Bath. The bed had been shoved into one corner and covered with a sheet, leaving enough space for a couple of tables scattered with papers and some uncomfortable folding chairs.

"Hey, Steve, they're here," the man--Barnes--called.

In the dim glow from the single gas lamp in the corner, Barnes was less imposing than he appeared in outline. He was only a couple of inches taller than Clint, and his chin-length hair was tucked behind his ears in defiance of every regulation about appropriate hairstyles the Metropolitan Police had. Over the years, Coulson had noted that every member of SHIELD defied the dress codes in some way, taking liberties nobody else would get away with. The only person who wore any form of uniform was Sergeant Hill, and she cheerfully wore a skirt at least three inches shorter than polite society dictated and had been known to scandalise everyone with an occasional venture into trousers. Coulson was sure she only wore the uniform because it forced people to acknowledge her rank, the highest any woman had achieved since the Bow Street Runners were formally turned into the Metropolitan Police and ranks became formalised.

The only response Barnes received was a grumble from the room next door. A curtain had been pinned over the door connecting the bedrooms, allowing this room to be lit and used for the dull clerical side of watching a house, while the other one stayed dark and hidden from view.

Barnes shrugged. "He's in the middle of another sketch. Want anything to eat before we get on with the night's work?"

Coulson shook his head and gestured to the mask covering most of his face. "We're fine."

A wry smile twisted Barnes's lips. "Can't blame a man for trying. We're paid to be curious about everything."

"This is probably one thing Fury would prefer you to stay uncurious about," Coulson said.

"Sometimes those are the best things to be curious about." Barnes picked up a piece of paper from the table. "Steve drew this for you earlier. You wanted some faces to confirm something?"

Coulson nodded, taking the page. "I have some contacts I wanted to show them to. They may be able to confirm who is in the house and what that means for us."

Barnes opened his mouth, questions clearly burning, but he snapped it shut without a word. Maybe he was learning how to rein in his curiosity. Or perhaps he knew the value of secrets, even if he hated being in the dark. There was something in his eyes Coulson recognised, even empathised with; a man who had spent too much time not knowing who or how to trust, and who hadn't entirely lost all of his old habits.

On the page, pencil sketches of several faces stared out at Coulson. His eyes were immediately drawn to two in a corner, children's faces with unhappy frowns and fear pulling their lips down. He couldn't have said why, but something about their faces--maybe their ages, or some indefinable similarity to other children he'd seen--made him sure they were Billy's missing kids. They were the right age, a boy and a girl, and Steve had drawn them as a clear pair rather than two faces that happened to share the same few inches of paper.

In the centre, Coulson recognised another face. He'd seen this man a few times, always dressed elegantly with a dark green scarf around his neck as he walked away from the house before dawn. This was the critical sketch: Coulson wanted to show it to Doctor Odinson and have final, positive proof it was his missing brother. Whoever this was, he was dressed too well to be from the street or one of the working class thieves who had been plaguing the city for the last couple of weeks.

His clothes were too fashionable, and his eyes didn't glow the same piercing blue as everyone else going in and out of the house.

If he wasn't Odinson's brother, he was still the leader of whatever was going on in there. Coulson would stake anything on it.

"Bucky!" Rogers didn't shout, but his voice carried easily through to them. "Something's happening. You'd better get in here."

All humour faded away from Barnes's face, replaced with grim determination that was almost frightening in its intensity. Coulson suddenly understood why Fury regarded Barnes as one of his best men.

Barnes turned the lamp down until the flame was so low, it was a miracle it didn't sputter out. Coulson squinted in the sudden dimness, just able to make out Barnes as he silently crossed to the curtain across the door and slipped through. Coulson followed, Clint on his heels without a word.

The other room was a smaller bedroom, cramped and over-full with the extra chairs Barnes and Rogers had dragged in to make watching easier on the feet. The only light came from a streetlamp below, and Coulson stifled a curse as he stubbed his toe on the leg of the bed.

Clint, of course, moved to stand next with Barnes and Rogers without accident, his sharp eyes seeing easily despite the darkness. Coulson hung back for a moment. Even though he'd mostly got past his tongue-tied admiration over the last few nights, there was still a corner of his mind quietly gibbering in delight that he was in the same room as Captain Steve Rogers of the _HMAS America_. He had followed Captain Rogers's adventures from the first newspaper report on his defeat of a nest of pirates, right up to the final, devastating account of his ship's last battle and its plunge into the ocean.

The subsequent recovery of Rogers's half-frozen body and his long recuperation had attracted few newspaper stories, but Coulson had read every one, supplemented with Peggy's occasional reports from her visits to him in hospital. He still couldn't believe he hadn't recognised Rogers when they first met, years ago, in Peggy's London residence. Of course, Rogers had been thinner than his photographs then, still rebuilding his strength after the disaster, and Coulson had been distracted.

Clint found it all incredibly funny, and his eyes had softened and darkened when Coulson confessed to having kept all the newspaper clippings. At least he hadn't been jealous. Coulson's admiration for Captain Rogers could never compare to what he felt for Clint, not in a thousand years.

Anyway, Coulson was almost certain Rogers and Barnes were as devoted to each other as any married couple. There was nothing overt in the way they acted, but he recognised the way they looked at each other, and the feeling in the room whenever they were both in it.

Rogers was still sitting in his chair by the window, a sketch pad on his knee and a pencil clutched between his fingers. It was too dark to make out what he'd been drawing, but it was probably more faces and impressions of the people he'd seen entering and leaving the house. In all the newspaper reports, there had never been any mention of Rogers's artistic talents, and Coulson had been hard-pressed not to babble in excited enthusiasm the first time he saw one of the sketches. By that stage of the first evening, he'd already embarrassed himself by accidentally confessing his admiration for Rogers's exploits with the _HMAS America_ , and he didn't want to make everything worse. 

Coulson reminded himself to breathe normally and stepped forward, staring between Clint's and Barnes's heads at the house across the street. In a moment, he could understand why everyone was staring.

Flashes of blue light lit up several upstairs bedroom windows. On its own, that wasn't unusual; there had been occasional odd lights inside the house every night, although not in so many windows or for more than a minute or two at a time. What caught everyone's eyes was the roof, where a bright blue glow pulsed steadily between the chimneys, illuminating a structure Coulson's eyes refused to comprehend.

It looked a little like a dirigible, but the envelope was smaller and sleeker than anything Coulson had seen before, a cigar-shaped beauty instead of the usual huge, squat ovals the Royal Aerial Fleet used. Even the small courier vessels looked ungainly compared to the machine floating above the house. The blue light reflected on dark, smooth panels. Without the light, the dirigible would be almost invisible in the night sky.

At that thought, Coulson realised another reason the dirigible felt so wrong: it was completely silent. Every flying machine he'd ever been near had noisy engines to propel them that could be heard on the ground no matter how high they flew. He'd been told it was much quieter in the gondola underneath, where the crew lived and worked, but he'd never investigated. Even here, inside the house, there should be a low rumble of engine and machinery, but he couldn't hear anything except their own breathing and, somewhere far in the distance, a policeman's whistle calling for help.

The blue glow hid most of the structure underneath the dirigible's envelope, but it couldn't be large. The vessel would never get off the ground with too much weight. Coulson squinted, trying to see past the glow, and thought he could see a small boxy carriage with a few windows. It couldn't hold more than a few of men, perhaps only three or four if they planned to carry any significant artillery.

Coulson was sure it was well-armed. The menacing sleekness was too obvious to be a pleasure vehicle; he was staring at the first of a new generation of fighting dirigibles, anchored to the roof of a house in Bloomsbury.

They must have been building it for weeks, unnoticed, and tonight was the first time they had inflated the envelope. Why tonight? Was it just that it was finally ready, or had something else prompted the decision to put it in the sky? There was no way to hide it, so they must be planning to leave tonight.

And go where?

"We have to tell Fury," Rogers said quietly.

"We have to stop them doing whatever they're doing," Bucky said.

"Not on our own. I counted at least five men going into that house over the last two hours, and none of them have come out."

Coulson couldn't tear his eyes away from the dirigible and its blue glow, but he hadn't lost his senses completely. "What about the children? How many are still in there?"

"I don't know," Rogers said. "I didn't see any come out, and Sitwell said nobody left during his day shift. Three definitely went in last night, so there's them and whoever was already in the house. To be honest, I lost track of counting."

"There were two more," Bucky said, his eyes narrowing. "I kept track. Two went in during our first shift and never came out again. Young kids, no more than twelve or thirteen. A boy and a girl, maybe. It's hard to tell from over here when they're wearing so many layers, but one of them had a long braid."

"They yours?" Rogers asked, without looking away from the rooftop.

Coulson pursed his lips. He hadn't mentioned he was looking for children, but Rogers was observant. He must have noticed Coulson always paid more attention to the sketches he did of the children than to the adults, apart from their leader. "They might be."

"So we have at least five grown men and five children," Rogers said. "There are four of us. We don't know how heavily armed they are, or even what they're armed with."

"We've had worse odds," Bucky said.

"Maybe, but I'd prefer to make things more even." Rogers stood, dropping his sketchpad and pencil on the chair behind him. "We have to tell Fury and get more men. I'll go for them. If something happens before I get back, don't put yourselves in any unnecessary danger." He paused, and even though his expression was impossible to see in the dark, Coulson was sure Rogers glared at him and Clint. "You're civilians, and I won't have you hurt on my watch. Do we understand each other?"

"Crystal clear," Clint said, much too cheerfully. "If anything happens, we'll sit here. Watch. Tell you which direction they fly off in, if we can see them. Maybe they'll forget to shield that big blue glow and make it easy for all of us."

"They won't take everyone," Bucky said. "That contraption isn't big enough."

"I'll be back as fast as I can," Rogers said. "Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"Shouldn't be difficult," Bucky said, amused warmth radiating from his voice. "You're taking most of the stupid with you."

Rogers chuckled, and Coulson wished the light was better so he could see how Rogers looked at Bucky. All he heard was a quick shoulder slap and then Rogers pushed past and hurried out of the room.

After a long, awkward silence, Bucky said, "Steve always could run faster than me, even before I got a ton of metal welded to my shoulder. And he's got a bicycle hidden a couple of streets over. He'll be back soon."

Coulson nodded, and then remembered Bucky probably couldn't see the gesture in the dark. "I'm sure he will be."

Warm skin touched the back of Coulson's hand--Clint's fingers, their feel familiar and too fleeting--and Coulson had to clench his fist to keep himself from reaching out and grabbing Clint's hand. If he held on tightly enough, he could anchor himself to this room and resist the urge to run down there and lead his own one-man assault on the house. It would be foolish, catastrophic, but if Rogers didn't get back in time, their only lead would float away into the night. He would take the Blue Stone with him, too, and Coulson was sure the blue light light still glowing from under the dirigible envelope was from Stark's missing jewel. He didn't know how it was related to the flashes of blue still shining from the upper windows occasionally, or to the bright blue eyes, but he was sure there was a connection. There had to be.

Clint shuffled a step sideways until his shoulder pressed against Coulson's. The warmth from Clint, and the solid muscularity of his body, grounded Coulson and slowed his thoughts from their panicked whirling. They would wait for Rogers.

Unless something changed in the house across the street. Then Coulson couldn't guarantee what he would do, orders or not.

"He'll be back in time," Bucky muttered.

***

Rogers returned in less than two hours, and it felt like a lifetime. The glow on the rooftop never dimmed or went out, although the flashes of light from the upper rooms grew less frequent. Coulson could see figures moving around inside the house and even crawling over the dirigible's envelope, when they were close enough to the blue light to be visible.

The shapes moving on the dirigible were too small to be adults.

"Weight," Barnes said, when Coulson remarked on it. "Steve said most of the maintenance crews on the big ships are picked for their size--small and agile. That's thing is a quarter the size of a regular ship. I guess only kids are small enough to do the work."

It made sense, in a chilling way, but Coulson hated to think of children crawling around so high in the air. He doubted they had ropes and carabiners, the way crews in the aerial fleet did. This kind of clandestine operation probably didn't pay attention to safety. After all, there were always more children to employ, and who would go looking for them?

Rogers barely made a sound when he entered the room. "Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing to miss," Barnes said. "Did you find Fury?"

"He authorised a raid," Rogers said. "We've got some men."

"Best news I've heard all week."

Coulson turned away from the window and tried to catch Rogers's eye, but it was too dark. He could only make out an outline. "Can we come?"

Rogers paused, before letting out a deep sigh. "Fury said you'd ask."

"And?"

"Fury also said you'd try to tag along even if I don't want you, so you're coming with us. You'll take my orders, though. You're civilians and I won't have you killed on my watch because you jumped in where you shouldn't be. Is that clear?"

"It's clear," Coulson said, at the same time Clint said, "As crystal."

"Good." 

Rogers sounded resigned, and Coulson felt a moment's guilt for putting him in this position, but it passed quickly. There were too many ways this could all go wrong, too many lives at stake, to allow guilt to take a foothold.

"Grab your gear," Rogers said. "We're going in the front door. I've already got our men on the other exits."

It took a few minutes to get outside and work their way through twisting streets to reach their target unseen. Even though it would have been faster to simply run across the road to the front door, Coulson could understand the reasoning behind the more oblique approach. They needed the element of surprise if they wanted to take the house before the dirigible could cast off.

Clint held an arrow nocked on his bowstring as they crept towards the door, backs pressed against the wall and crouched uncomfortably low to pass the windows. Barnes carried a heavy rifle and Rogers held a revolver in one hand a knife in the other. Coulson felt underdressed with only a length of lead piping in his hand, and he briefly wished he'd thought to borrow one of Stark's electric rifles, but Barnes kicked the door open before he could finish the thought.

Barnes and Rogers went in first, with Coulson close on their heels and Clint behind him. The faint sound of smashing glass told him the other teams were beginning their assault, too. Coulson's heart hammered in his chest as his gaze darted this way and that, trying to take in every detail of the dimly lit front hall. Even through his mask, an electric scent tainted the musty air and coated his tongue, making him glad for the protection of the thick fabric. Above, he heard the clatter of boots on wooden floorboards; the inhabitants knew something was happening.

The door on their left was probably the front parlour. There had been no sign of movement inside since the watch began, but Barnes pushed the door open and checked anyway. A sharp cry and the sound of fighting from the back of the house announced there had been guards set there. Maybe they hadn't expected a frontal assault.

Maybe whoever was supposed to be guarding the front had run away or fallen asleep on the job.

Rogers pushed open a door on their right and stepped inside, his revolver raised. He reappeared after less than a minute, his lips twisting unhappily. "You should take a look."

Coulson swallowed.

The room had been stripped of furniture and carpets, so it was difficult to see what it had been before the current residents took over. Bright patches on the faded wallpaper showed where pictures had once hung, and the gas lamps were ornate. Coulson realised he was focussing on the walls to avoid looking at anything else.

In one corner, under the windows, thin blankets had been turned into a nest for two small bodies. In the dim light, Coulson could make out pale faces and a long braid trailing across a dirty white blanket. Billy's Doc had a long braid, but so did most girls her age. It was her, though, Coulson was sure of it. Doc and Sparks. His stomach churned and his lungs were suddenly too tight, his throat too narrow, and the mask was suffocating him. He couldn't pull in enough air through the thick fabric, and he clawed at his collar, trying to loosen it.

Without knowing how he got there, he was suddenly kneeling beside the children, putting out a shaking hand to touch the girl's shoulder. She was still warm.

Her chest rose.

Coulson bent down, first to the girl's chest and then the boy's. "They're alive!"

Rogers stuck his head in. "They are?"

Coulson nodded. "Just unconscious."

Relief brightened Rogers's expression for a moment, before grim determination filled his eyes again. "Are they safe to leave? We've still got a job to do."

Their breathing was shallow, but steady, and they looked peaceful. Coulson pulled one of the blankets up, to keep them warm, and stood. "Just point me the right way."

There was a staircase at the far end of the hallway. Barnes took the lead, with Rogers behind and Clint following. Coulson backed up slowly, watching for any sign of guards they might have missed, but nobody followed them.

A door crashed open in the upper hallway and men poured out, their blue eyes glowing in the dim light. Barnes's rifle roared as he fired once and ran into the group, throwing himself into the fight with brutal efficiency. Rogers followed as another door opened, further down, spilling more men out. The tight quarters worked against them, though, penning them up so Rogers and Barnes never had to face more than a couple of men at once. Coulson could only watch in fascinated admiration, while Clint muttered and tried to aim, but they were moving too fast for him to risk shooting.

The fight carried them down the hallway, leaving groaning bodies in their wake. Coulson felt useless, until one of the bodies tried to rise and he swung his lead pipe to knock the man down to the floor again.

The stairs to the top floor were at the far end of the hall. These were narrower, intended for the servants who lived up there rather than the family. Somehow, Coulson ended up with his back to those stairs with Clint behind him. He didn't realise the danger until he heard a soft chuckle and turned.

The man with the green scarf stood on the second step, a cool smile curving his thin lips. In one hand, he held his walking cane, except now Coulson could see it more clearly, he realised it wasn't a cane at all. The mahogany stick had been fitted onto a short golden rod, topped with a blue jewel that caught the light and made Coulson's head ache to look at.

The smile never left the man's face as he reached out and touched the jewel to the back of Clint's neck.

Clint stiffened and his mouth opened on a silent scream as inky blackness flooded his eyes. He blinked, and the black turned to bright, piercing blue.

Coulson instinctively raised a hand to grab Clint's shoulder, pull him away, but Clint was too fast. His backhanded swipe caught Coulson unawares and he rocked back, stumbling into a wall.

"I'll be taking my leave now, gentleman," the man in the green scarf said.

Clint raised his bow, drew, and released. The arrow sped through the air towards Barnes and hit his shoulder with a loud clang. Coulson stared in frozen horror at the arrow, sprouting from Barnes's shoulder, but the other man only scowled down at it and yanked it free. No blood gushed out and the arrowhead looked oddly twisted.

A door slamming above pulled Coulson out of his stupor, and he turned back to the stairs. Clint and the man in the green scarf had disappeared. Coulson heard Rogers shout something, but he didn't listen; he had to follow Clint, find Clint, stop Clint.

There were half a dozen narrow doors on the upstairs hall, but only one of them was marked for the roof. Coulson sprinted for it and dashed up the steep, wooden stairs behind it. He stumbled through the door at the top, in time to see the ropes that had held the dirigible down slither away.

The wooden platform on the roof looked old, which explained why this house had been chosen as their base. It stretched the length and breadth of the space between the chimneys, enough space for a small, boxy carriage to be constructed for a dirigible. It was lifting up, away, but the door was still open and emitted a soft blue glow. Time seemed to slow as Coulson ran across the platform, arms outstretched though he had no idea what he planned to do. He managed to catch the edge of the doorway with one hand and felt his feet starting to drag across the platform as he held on.

A boot landed on his fingers.

Coulson looked up, in time to see Clint's expressionless face gazing down at him. The blue glow from inside the carriage shadows almost, for a brief moment, fooled Coulson into thinking he saw regret there. Then Clint's boot pressed down hard, sending searing pain through Coulson's hand and he lost his grip.

He fell against the railing around the platform, cradling his hand, and watched the carriage door slam shut as the dirigible floated away into the night, dark and silent.

# 

Chapter Eleven

_London, October 9, 1908_

Coulson sat.

He had been sitting in his tiny study, staring at nothing, for days. The thought of getting up, going out, filled him with a deep sense of weariness that made his mind shut down whenever he contemplated it. Much easier just to sit, and stare, and not think of anything at all.

For the first few hours, he'd been able to keep going, keep moving around and hunting for leads or clues or anything that would tell him where Clint was. There had been so much to do: unconscious children to settle; messages to send to Billy telling him where they were; the sketches to show Doctor Odinson. Coulson had moved in something close to a frenzy, criss-crossing London after they finished searching the house, taking care of everything the masked vigilante could possibly attend to. He'd been so sure it would only take a few hours to rediscover Odinson's brother and rescue Clint.

Then reality had begun to settle in.

Clint had flown away in a dirigible that was invisible against the night sky. Unless someone happened to be looking up at exactly the right moment, and also happened to spot the moment when it passed in front of a star, no one would ever see it. Or hear it. The dirigible would be a perfect weapon and someone would pay a lot of money to add a few to their fleet, if Odinson's brother could find a way to duplicate the blue stone's power.

More importantly, there was no way to track it and find out where Clint had been taken. Coulson didn't even know which direction, north or south.

Every time Coulson closed his eyes, his mind replayed the moment when Clint's eyes turned black, and then bright blue, and all expression drained from his face. Or the moment when he'd almost crushed Coulson's fingers under his boot without turning a hair. It had been like looking into a stranger's face, even though the features were painfully familiar and beloved.

Coulson didn't know how the gold staff worked, but it was clear what it did: it controlled the people Odinson's brother touched with it.

Even if Coulson found Clint, he didn't know how to break the control. And he wasn't sure he could stand to look into Clint's face and shoot him, even though he knew with every fibre of his being that Clint would rather die than be someone's puppet. If there was no other way to free Clint, he would do it, but he didn't know what he'd do after.

A soft thump somewhere in the flat pulled Coulson out of his spiralling thoughts. He frowned, straining to listen.

A quiet scrape, as though someone was closing a window, and then the faint sound of footsteps drawing closer. Coulson didn't bother to get up. It felt like far too much effort.

The study door creaked as it slowly swung open, giving him plenty of time to stand and get ready to defend himself, but he didn't. He stayed where he was, staring at the same patch of wall, ignoring the sense of eyes burning into the back of his skull.

"Coulson." Natasha's voice was sharp, but she softened slightly when she said, "Phil."

He didn't move.

Two footsteps and she was in front of him, kneeling, sliding into his view even though he tried to ignore her. Natasha's hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she was dressed in the tight, dark trousers and shirt she wore when she went climbing and sneaking through houses. She put a hand on his knee and her nails dug in painfully when he refused to meet her eyes.

"Coulson," she said, her voice flat. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, Coulson allowed his gaze to drop to the top of her head.

"Have you left the flat since Wednesday morning?" Her nose wrinkled. "Have you bathed?"

Coulson shrugged.

"Brooding in here doesn't help Clint," she said.

Coulson had to clear his throat to speak. "Nothing I can do will help Clint."

Natasha's lips flattened, but she nodded understanding. "I found Laufeyson."

Coulson blinked. The name felt familiar, but he didn't know why.

"Thor's brother," Natasha said. "Loki Laufeyson. They never changed his name after he was adopted." Her tone became dry. "I can't imagine why he never felt like he belonged in the family."

"That's not Doctor Odinson's fault," Coulson said.

"No, it's his father's, but Thor is the one who has to clean up the mess." Natasha's lips turned down in a delicate grimace. "And not just Thor."

"Where is Laufeyson?"

"At the Carter estate."

Coulson tilted his head. "What? How? How do you know?"

"I think Darcy is bored," Natasha said. "She sent me a letter by the last evening post."

"What does it say?"

A faint hint of pink appeared high on Natasha's cheeks, but her voice remained cool and calm. "The only part that's relevant is that Laufeyson arrived at the house party this morning, apparently at Lady Carter's invitation. There was a reunion and Thor refuses to ask for any details about what Laufeyson has been up to, because 'he's too chicken-livered and afraid Loki will run off again'."

"That's a direct quote, I take it."

Natasha nodded. "Darcy is sure he's up to something, but Thor says he's made some kind of promise to be good and that's all he needs."

"And so Darcy wrote to you."

One slim shoulder lifted. "That's one way to see it."

"Has she seen any sign of Clint?"

"Laufeyson arrived alone. No sign of your valet or the dirigible."

Coulson frowned. "We need to get down there immediately."

"The last train left twenty minutes ago," Natasha said. "And he has a dirigible. If we get down there and smoke him out, we'll lose him the moment he takes flight."

Coulson thought for a moment, before a fierce smile pulled the corners of his mouth tight. "I may have a solution to that problem."

***

There were still lights burning in the windows of Stark's house in Pall Mall when Coulson pulled up in a horse-drawn hansom cab. When he'd been trying to hail a vehicle, a steam car had pulled up beside him and for one, brief moment, he'd allowed himself to take a step towards it.

Then a voice at the back of his mind--one filled with painfully familiar laughter--reminded him that even if he was desperate, there were appearances to maintain. Mr Philip Coulson would never travel in a steam car, not after all the dire warnings he'd uttered over the years, and the sudden disappearance of his valet shouldn't change his behaviour so radically that he forgot one of his deeply-held fears. People would talk, if they saw him, and gossip was the last thing he needed at this moment.

Perhaps if he'd been sure of going somewhere he wouldn't be seen...

But one of the calls Coulson made on his way to Stark's house was to Chester's, and someone would definitely see him and start talking. He didn't go inside, but he left a sealed envelope with the footman on the door, who promised to make sure Fury received it. Coulson would have felt more confident if he'd put the note into Evans' hand, but that would have required entering the club, and then Fury almost certainly would have seen him.

He told himself it was simply expediency that made him avoid Fury, not fear Fury would try to stop him.

He wasn't very good at lying to himself.

Natasha had disappeared with a muttered promise to meet him later as she clambered out of his kitchen window. Coulson didn't know how she knew where he was going, but one thing he'd learned from experience and Clint's occasional hints was that Natasha always knew more than she should, and she always turned up when she wasn't expected.

Jarvis eyed Coulson with disapproving dourness when he opened the door, but he led the way to Stark's workshop without audible complaint. He was probably used to his master's odd hours by now.

The workshop was brightly lit, but Stark wasn't immediately visible. Coulson frowned and turned to ask Jarvis where Stark was, but the butler was already retreating at a fast but dignified trot. Huh.

As usual, contraptions buzzed and chattered on the shelves lining the room, and the workbenches were littered with tools and half-finished devices. Coulson moved through the workshop slowly, searching behind the taller items and even bending to peer under the benches a few times. At the far end of the room, he stopped and looked back. No sign of Stark.

Something tapped him on the shoulder and Coulson jumped. A device that was little more than a metal arm on a wheeled platform, sitting on the bench behind him, moved its "hand".

After a moment, Coulson realised it was trying to wave.

"Hello?" he said, feeling slightly foolish talking to a disembodied arm.

The arm made an excited gesture Coulson couldn't interpret, before swivelling to point at the door leading out into the garden.

"Is he out there?" Coulson asked.

The arm gestured more emphatically.

Coulson shrugged and followed its directions. The _Iron Heart_ looked as he remembered, a hulking box sitting in the corner of the garden. Weeds had grown up around its wheels.

From inside the main box, he heard Stark's muffled voice. "Shit, ow, that doesn't work."

A softer voice answered, too quiet for Coulson to make out the words, but he recognised it. Pepper. What were they doing?

Did he really want to know?

The image of Clint's expressionless face staring down at him floated through Coulson's mind. He squared his shoulders, marched up to the vehicle, and rapped sharply on the back door.

It swung open after a minute, and Coulson blinked in the sudden bright light. When his eyes cleared, he found Stark staring at him with raised eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"

Coulson lifted his chin. "I need your assistance."

"Phil?" Pepper pushed in front of Stark. "What's wrong?"

"I need a dirigible," Coulson said. "I assume you have one."

Pepper exchanged a glance with Stark. "We do, but why do you need it?"

"I've found Clint. Barton. I've found him."

Stark's mouth worked for a moment, before he said, "I didn't know you'd lost him."

Coulson stared at him before realising, with a dull sense of surprise, that he'd completely forgotten to update Stark on the progress of the case. After he gave up on finding Laufeyson, it hadn't seemed important. Nothing had. All he'd done was...sit.

His voice sounded thick in his ears. "He was...taken. I'll explain when we're in the air, but we need to go. Now. Tonight."

"Why should I?" Stark asked, and then swore when Pepper elbowed him in the ribs. "I mean--"

"What Tony's trying to say," Pepper said, talking over him, "is of course, we'd be delighted. It would be a good chance to test his new engine on a larger scale."

"It would?" Stark said. 

"You got it working?" Coulson said.

Pepper nodded. "We were trying to install another one in...it's not important, actually. What is important is that we got it working, the Board's happy, and now we need to test it on something larger. The dirigible will be perfect."

Stark let out a resigned sigh. "Hop up. I guess we're going to the airfield."

Coulson hopped.

***

Stark's dirigible was small by military standards, but still much larger than the sleek black machine Clint had floated away in. It was moored on a pylon in the airfield in Hyde Park, bobbing in stately splendour level with the treetops. The airfield was on the Knightsbridge side of the Park, by the Serpentine, which had caused a flurry of irritated letters to the newspapers when it first opened. Hardly any of the trees had needed felling to install it, though, thanks to the height of the pylons, and the Serpentine provided a useful water landing should a badly-managed ballon require extinguishing.

So far, only three dirigibles had needed to use the Serpentine, and only one had actually managed to hit its target, but the theory was sound.

Stark's dirigible had a large, cigar-shaped envelope painted red and gold with a surprisingly elegant gondola slung beneath it. The engine room was at the back and the bridge at the front, with several spacious cabins and a small dining room between, all joined by a narrow corridor that barely had enough room for two men to pass each other sideways. Pepper pointed to a hatch in the ceiling as she showed Coulson around, noting there were a couple of small cabins inside the rigid envelope for staff. Coulson was relieved they wouldn't have to use those rooms; being that close to the bags of hydrogen would be even more unnerving than sitting in a steam car. Down in the gondola, he could at least pretend all the lift came from the engines and force thoughts of what was inside the envelope away.

He sat in the cabin nearest the engine room while Stark and Pepper worked, staring out of the window as he listened to the muffled sound of spirited discussion and occasional clangs. Below, Hyde Park lay mostly in darkness, only a few gas lamps sketching in the outline of avenues and paths. Wide swathes of the Park were unlit, including the area below the airfield pylons.

Coulson narrowed his eyes. A small light was moving away from one of the avenues, heading towards the airfield. He followed its path for a minute, before he stood and squeezed out of the cabin to poke his head into the engine room. Stark's feet were visible under a mass of gears, cogs, and pistons, with Pepper crouched next to them holding out a spanner.

"I'm going below," Coulson said. "I think we may have company."

Pepper nodded without taking her eyes off Stark's feet. "Try not to damaged them too badly. We like this airfield and we don't want to be forced to move to the one across the River."

He nodded and left. The pylon had its own lifting machine, for passengers who didn't want to climb a couple of hundred metal steps, but the metal box had a light on top and it would be clear to whoever was approaching that someone was going down to investigate. He took the stairs instead, jogging down as fast as he dared. A steam car puffed up to the pylon as Coulson jumped down the last couple of steps. He wished, not for the first time, that he was carrying a gun.

Or had Clint's bow at his back, but that thought sent a spike of pain through his chest and he pushed it away.

He stayed in the pylon's shadow as the car slowed and stopped with a final, sputtering huff of smoke and steam. The lantern bobbing above the driver's bench revealed a man in livery and a flat cap, wide goggles hiding his eyes. He fiddled with something under the steering wheel, which made a loud clonk, and then hopped down to open the car's passenger door. Coulson held his breath and tightened his grip on the lead pipe.

A foot clad in a delicate black boot with tiny red buttons emerged below the edge of the door. It was joined another boot, and both were quickly hidden by the hem of a black skirt. Coulson didn't relax until he saw Natasha's familiar, slim form appear from behind the door, carrying a small carpet bag. Even though her face was hidden by a thick widow's veil, he knew it was her; she moved with deadly grace, and nobody else would wear fine red piping at the cuffs of a black dress, in defiance of society's strict expectations of a widow's weeds.

She murmured softly as she paid the driver and he hopped onto his bench with a lack of concern that implied he'd worked for her before. Only someone who knew her ways--and how easily she could defend herself--would leave a young window in an airfield near midnight.

"Good evening," Natasha said, as the steam car chugged away.

Coulson stepped out of the pylon's shadow. "How did you know I was there?"

"I didn't." A hint of amusement entered her voice. "But I assumed. You've found transport?"

"If they can get it working," Coulson said. "Stark promises it will only be a few more minutes. Laufeyson won't be able to float away from us again."

Natasha inclined her head. "Good. Is there a lifting box, or do I need to climb up?"

"You don't seem to mind climbing up to my flat."

"I'm not currently dressed for climbing."

Coulson titled his head. "I noticed. Is there a reason?"

She shrugged. "It didn't seem appropriate for our destination. If we can't--"

Natasha broke off, her head lifting as though she was listening for something. Coulson opened his mouth to ask, but she gestured and he didn't say anything. He strained his ears and, after a long moment, he heard something.

A faint snap--a twig.

A rustle--leaves brushing on fabric?

There was someone out there, trying to sneak up on them, and doing a better job than most people would.

But not good enough. Coulson glanced at Natasha and she nodded. He couldn't see any weapon, but he had no doubt she had something lethal hidden and easily accessible.

"Who's out there?" he called.

Natasha dropped her carpet bag and Coulson caught a glimpse of something silver in her hand. "Come out, come out," she said, her voice sing-song. "We're ready for you."

The rustle was louder this time, more deliberate, and then two shapes emerged from the trees. Coulson squinted as the men moved into the circle of light around the pylon, and he swore when he recognised them.

"Did Fury send you?" he asked.

Rogers had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. "Not exactly."

"What exactly did he say?"

"He gave us a few days leave and told us where you might be," Rogers said, with a rueful smile.

"You don't have any authority where we're going," Coulson said. "You do know that, don't you?"

Rogers straightened his shoulders. "Inspector Fury made sure we understood that, sir."

"You know these men?" Natasha said.

Coulson sighed. "They work for Fury, in his SHIELD unit. They were investigating the thefts Laufeyson had people committing for him."

"They know who you really are?"

Coulson raised a hand to his face, but the chill evening breeze on his bare skin told him everything; he wasn't wearing his mask.

Rogers's smile turned apologetic. "We know, sir. Known since Crystal Palace, but Inspector Fury swore us to secrecy. Don't worry, we're the only ones in SHIELD who know for sure. Hill probably suspects, but she'd never betray Inspector Fury, so your secret is safe with her."

Barnes had been keeping a few feet back from Rogers while they talked, half in the shadows, watching them with an odd expression Coulson couldn't interpret. He stepped forward now, his gaze fixed on Natasha.

"Natalia?" he said, his voice sounding raw and rough.

His next words were in a language Coulson didn't understand, although he thought it might be Russian. He didn't need to understand the words to grasp the meaning: disbelief, hope, shock, all mingled together in a tangled, painful mess.

Natasha turned, slowly. Her veil hid her expression, but for once, her voice lost its usual tightly controlled calm. "James?"

Barnes took a step towards her and said something else in Russian. Natasha answered him in the same language; her voice broke on one word and she took a shaky breathing before continuing. Coulson stole a glance at Rogers, who was watching Barnes with a concerned expression. 

Barnes said something, two quick words, and switched to English. "Steve, she was there, at the place where they trained me. I remember her."

Rogers smiled, but it was forced. "I'd guessed."

Coulson glanced up at the dirigible looming above them. "Stark should be nearly finished. Can you continue this aboard?"

Natasha dipped her head. "Of course." There was a hint of accent in her voice that hadn't been there before. "You mentioned a lifting box?"

The ride up the pylon was uncomfortable, to put it mildly. Coulson tried to squash into one corner of the box, taking up as little space as possible, and he noticed Rogers was doing the same on the other side. He wondered whether Clint had known about Barnes and Natasha's training.

He pushed that thought aside.

The door rattled open and they crossed the short walkway to the dirigible's gondola in silence. It led into the bridge, with its tall captain's wheel and a map table securely bolted to the floor. Rogers went straight to the wheel and rested his hand on it for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes.

"I haven't been inside one of these for a long time," he said, and chuckled. "I don't remember them having such nice chairs, though. Wooden stools were all the RAF usually let us have."

The chairs bolted to the deck, facing control boards, were plush and comfortable, more like dining chairs than the workman-like constructions Coulson had seen on the only military dirigible he'd toured.

"I think this is a yacht, not a fighting machine," he said.

"I can see that."

The lights flickered and brightened, and there was a loud whoop from the direction of the engine room. Coulson breathed a sigh of relief. "It looks like Stark got his new power supply working."

"Looks like he did," Rogers said. "Want to tell me where we're going?"

***

Coulson stared out of the window, feeling the vibration of the deck under his feet as he watched for lights below that would reassure them he was moving. Every now and then, they passed over a house, twinkling and tiny, but they were over countryside; most people had long since gone to bed and put out their gas lamps and candles. It was hard to believe they were floating as fast as Stark claimed when all he could see was unmoving stars and a few patches of fields when the moon consented to peek through the clouds.

A door opened and closed behind him, but he ignored the sound of footsteps approaching.

"This ship feels different from the _America_ ," Rogers said, his voice low. "Quieter. I remember dirigibles being more crowded and the engine was a lot noisier than the new contraption your friend's designed."

Coulson nodded. "This ship isn't built for a fight."

"But she might get one."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"What do you think Laufeyson will do when we catch up to him?"

"I don't know that, either."

"I know Lady Carter," Rogers said. "She's an old friend."

"We grew up not far from each other," Coulson said. "I've known her most of my life."

"Does she know what you do?" Rogers asked.

Coulson didn't bother to ask what he meant; it was obvious. "No. Until a few months ago, nobody did."

There was a long silence, before Rogers said, "Bucky and Miss Romanov are talking. I guess they've got a lot to catch up on."

"I think they do."

"He was...there was a time when I thought he was dead and some people did some things to him while he was gone. His memory is patchy about it. He never mentioned Miss Romanov before, but he doesn't like talking about that time."

Coulson stared down at a small light passing below. "She's an old friend of Cl-Barton's. My valet."

"Inspector Fury told me about him. He's the man with the bow."

Neither of them have told me much about Natasha's background, but they gave me a few hints. I know she was trained to do certain things, and I know she ran away from the people who trained her. I know she's spent the last few years trying to make up for the things she did, in her way."

"Bucky tries to do the same," Rogers said. "It's part of why he joined the Metropolitan Police."

Silence fell again, comfortable and thoughtful, and it lasted until the dirigible began its descent to the ground.

***

They set down in a field half a mile from Carter House. It wasn't subtle, and Stark complained bitterly about the indignity of his beautiful dirigible resting on the ground instead of floating majestically against a pylon, but the nearest airfield was several miles away and Coulson was sure Peggy would be irritated if they landed on her roof. The field had to suffice.

After a short argument, Steve and Bucky reluctantly agreed to stay with Pepper in the dirigible while the others went to the house. Pepper put up the loudest protests, but they needed someone to keep the dirigible flight-ready at short notice, and it would look less strange for Stark to appear at a house party without Pepper than the other way around. Coulson privately suspected Stark didn't want to miss a chance to see his missing jewel, but he kept that thought to himself. His concerns about the jewel's grip on Stark's mind hadn't entirely subsided, but this was not the right time to raise them.

The moon was still mostly behind clouds, but Coulson had his wind-up lantern so they didn't stumble too many times. Natasha still wore her dress, and her delicate buttoned boots were surprisingly sturdy for the walk over the field, through a small copse, and across the well-manicured gardens around Carter House. She raised her skirts almost to her knees, making Stark's eyes bug out until Coulson elbowed him in the ribs, and they arrived in front of the front steps with barely any sign of their trek apart from some mud on their footwear.

"What do we do next?" Stark asked, staring up at the house.

Coulson glanced at the door, but if he rang the bell, it would announce their arrival to everyone. He didn't want that yet, not until he had a better picture of what was happening inside than Darcy's letter had given. He stooped to grab a handful of gravel from the driveway before turning left and walking, counting windows as he went until he reached the one he wanted. Then he threw the gravel with an accuracy Clint would have been proud of.

Stark chuckled. "You know, I wouldn't have picked you as the type to have a lot of practice at that."

Coulson only smiled.

The window slid up a moment later, and Peggy poked her head out, looking around until she spotted Coulson below, holding his lantern.

"Phil?" she said, in a low hiss. "What are you doing here?"

"We need your help."

"Who's we?" She turned her head. "Mr Stark? And...I'm sorry, I don't recognise you."

Natasha raised her veil. "Natasha Romanov. I'm a friend of Miss Lewis's."

Peggy sighed. "Wait there, I'll be down in two minutes. Don't move."

They waited. Stark cheerfully danced a few steps down the driveway and Coulson barely resisted the temptation to role his eyes at the antics.

The front door opened on silent hinges, just wide enough to allow them to slip inside before Peggy closed it behind them. She wore a thick, tartan robe that was much too large for her and disguised her shape completely, but it was warm against the night's chill. Carter House was cool even in the height of summer, and autumn was rapidly turning cold. Peggy held up a hand when Stark opened his mouth and he closed it with a surprised frown.

"Follow me," she said, voice still low, and led the way to the library.

Coulson would have preferred to talk almost anywhere else, but he couldn't argue. The library had good memories for him, of working with Clint on the night they first kissed. He couldn't help glancing at the alcove where they'd hidden behind a curtain, and a sharp pang of loss made his chest ache.

"What are you doing here?" Peggy asked, as soon as Natasha closed the door. "How did you get here?"

"We got here in my dirigible," Stark said, with a rakish grin.

Peggy didn't look impressed. "I hope you didn't park it on my rose garden."

"We didn't," Coulson said, before Stark could say anything obnoxious. "We heard you have a guest. Loki Laufeyson."

Peggy's eyes narrowed. "What do you want him for?"

"He stole my stuff," Stark said.

"He stole my valet," Coulson said. "And he's hurt a lot of people. He's dangerous."

"Did he?" Peggy didn't look surprised. "I'm afraid I need him for a while, so I can't let you have him yet."

Stark's lips went flat. "He took my stuff. He hurt people. Why do _you_ need him?"

Coulson watched Peggy, feeling his heart sink as she pasted on a carefree smile. "You invited him to your party deliberately. Who else is here?"

Peggy shrugged. "Just a couple of ministers from the War Department. And their counterparts from the French and German governments." She paused, before adding, "I believe a couple of my guests may also have ties to large weapons companies on the Continent. Doctor Odinson, for example, who seems very attached to your friend Doctor Foster."

"He's also Laufeyson's brother," Coulson said. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"It might, possibly, have come up in conversation when I was finalising the guest list."

"Who were you finalising the list with?"

Stark frowned. "I'm missing something. I feel like I'm missing very important here, and that always makes me unhappy. Pep--damn. I knew I needed to bring her with us."

"Mrs Stark is here, too?" Peggy said, both eyebrows rising. "Where is she? Don't tell me you left her with your dirigible, that's dreadful manners. I thought even you knew better than that."

"I'm afraid Lady Carter isn't what she seems," Coulson said.

"I'm getting that," Stark said.

"It seems I'm not the only one." Peggy crossed her arms. "Phil, is there something you want to tell me? I've never known you to have much interest in dangerous men or stolen items of property, and I can't imagine why Mr Laufeyson would steal your valet. He's certainly not using him as a valet; I had to lend him one of my footmen."

"It's a long story," Coulson said.

"I'm prepared to listen."

"Maybe you could tell her after you've explained why she's invited so many clients for Laufeyson to her house party?"

Natasha cleared her throat. "Because she works for the government, don't you, my lady?"

"Peggy, please."

"Are you Foreign Office or War?" Natasha asked. "Or Home, although I don't think you fit there."

Peggy hesitated, before giving in with a quiet sigh. "Foreign. Obviously, we want to buy Mr Laufeyson's new weapon if we can, but if we can't, we need to know who has it. And it's always useful to know who all the players are in a transaction like this, for future reference. War is coming, Miss Romanov, and we need to know which way the wind is blowing. I'd imagine that's something you know all about, through. Which government do you represent?"

"In this matter?"

"In any matter."

"I work for myself," Natasha said. "In this matter, I'm helping a friend."

"I see."

Stark raised his chin. "How much is he asking for his dirigible?"

"Dirigible?" Peggy looked intrigued. 

"He's not selling a dirigible?" Coulson asked.

"I don't know what his new weapon is, but he'll be giving a demonstration tomorrow morning--he asked my steward to provide a pig for it. I'd be interested to know how a pig could help him to demonstrate a new model of dirigibles."

"It can't," Stark said. "Unless he's planning to have the pig fly it, and that doesn't seem likely."

"After some of the things I've seen over the last few weeks," Coulson said, "I wouldn't be surprised if he did."

"Maybe he's planning to hypnotise them," Natasha said. "Or whatever it is he did to Clint."

"Clint?" Peggy said.

"Barton," Coulson said, trying to keep his voice even. He failed. "My valet. Laufeyson somehow entranced him. The last I saw of him, he was floating away in Laufeyson's dirigible and he didn't even seem to know who I am."

"Oh, Phil," Peggy said, with more sympathy than he through the loss of his valet deserved from anyone who didn't know what Barton really meant to him. Maybe Peggy did; it wouldn't surprise him. She always seemed to know more than she should about everything. "If Barton was here, I'd tell you. I haven't seen any sign of him or a dirigible, I'm afraid. As far as I'm aware, the weapon Mr Laufeyson plans to demonstrate has nothing to do with dirigibles. You can watch the demonstration, if you'd like."

"I want my stuff back," Stark said. "Why wait? We can arrest him right now."

Natasha shook her head. "I think we should watch the demonstration. We need to know what we're up against."

Peggy smiled. "And you can't arrest anyone, Mr Stark. Nor can anyone else in this room, actually."

"Not even you?" Stark asked.

"Especially not me," Peggy said. "I have a reputation to keep up. If you'd like to stay for the weekend, I have some rooms ready. I always have a few spares made up, in case anyone brings unexpected guests. We can say you missed the last train--I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time, Mr Stark--so you came here under your own steam, so to speak."

"All of us?" Coulson said.

Peggy smiled. "Don't look so horrified, Phil. Is it really so bad to be known as a friend of Mr Stark's?"

"What about me?" Natasha asked.

Peggy tilted her head. "You're a friend of Miss Lewis's, yes? Perhaps you also missed the train, after a late invitation to join us from Miss Lewis, and Mr Stark offered to bring you when he heard your predicament."

"I can make that work," Natasha said. She lifted her carpet bag. "I came prepared for a brief stay."

Peggy smiled. "Of course you did. I'll have my staff find fresh clothes for the men, discretely of course. None of my people will gossip. If you don't mind waiting a minute or two, I'll have someone show you to your rooms." She fixed Coulson with a sharp glare. "Phil, you'll have a nightcap with me before you go to bed."

It wasn't a question, and Coulson sighed. There was no point putting it off; Peggy had a stubborn streak a mile wide and she wouldn't let him get away without an explanation. "I'd love one."

"I thought you would."

# 

Chapter Twelve

_Carter estate, Oxfordshire, October 10, 1908_

The demonstration took place late in the morning, after a long breakfast and one of the brisk walks Peggy's parties were famed for. Nobody batted an eyelid at the extra guests at the breakfast table after Peggy introduced them, not even Laufeyson, although he eyed Stark speculatively for a long moment before dismissing him and going back to a quiet conversation with a German shipbuilder. Coulson couldn't decide whether he was evaluating Stark as a potential customer--although Stark Industries had been out of the weapons business for years--or assessing whether Stark knew he had the Blue Stone.

Darcy and Natasha sat close together throughout the meal, talking in hushed tones; Coulson decided not to inquire too closely where the women had slept last night. Doctor Foster and Odinson were talking equally earnestly, and Coulson smiled to himself at the similarity in the way the two couples hung on each other's words. The only difference was perception: most of the people at the table assumed Doctor Foster and Odinson were courting, with an engagement soon to be announced, and dismissed Darcy and Natasha's behaviour as nothing but a simple, although close, friendship. In some ways, it was easier for women to love each other under the noses of society than men; there was an assumption they would have strong, affectionate friendships, so nobody looked oddly at them when they whispered and laughed together at breakfast, where men would be eyed with disapproval for the same behaviour.

They were able to drop back during a walk around the grounds, too, and amble along with their hands almost brushing. Coulson and Stark tried to stay just behind Laufeyson, to overhear his conversations, but that proved impossible. Laufeyson was too good at subtly moving from group to group, and it looked suspicious if Coulson and Stark followed him.

There was a waiting atmosphere to the morning, a tension in the air as though everyone was willing away the minutes and hours until the main event of the day. When they returned to the house and Peggy announced they would meet in the paddock in half an hour for Laufeyson's demonstration, there were expressions of profound relief on more than a few faces. Coulson caught Peggy watching closely, her eyes sharp, and he wondered what she saw there--who she was really watching and what it meant that the German minister patted his breast pocket as she made the announcement.

To Coulson's surprise, Darcy and Doctor Foster joined the crowd in the paddock. It didn't seem like the kind of thing either woman would have an interest in, but they each stood close to their partners, so perhaps that explained their presence. Doctor Odinson looked troubled when Laufeyson stepped forward with a large suitcase and put it on the table that had been set up.

Stark noticed, but he kept his voice low. "Think the brotherly reunion has gone sour already?"

Coulson shook his head. "I think it's gone well and Doctor Odinson is worried that whatever Laufeyson is about to do will cause a new problem."

"You're sure he put the blue stone in the dirigible?"

"Mostly sure," Coulson said. "There _was_ only one stone, wasn't there?"

"Yes." Stark hesitated before adding, "Unless he learned how to store its power."

"What?" Coulson barely managed to keep his voice down to a whisper. "That's something he could do?"

Stark shrugged. "It's a thought I had. If I could build something to hold its power in, I could use it as the energy source for a whole range of devices. That would be as useful as a weapon that can level a city in a heartbeat. Maybe more useful, actually. Huh. That's a thought I didn't have. I was going to make safer carriages and dirigibles, not guns."

At the table, Laufeyson reached into his case and drew out something that looked like an unusually fat bolt-action rifle. He held it up so everyone could see it and admire the strangely short barrel and thickened stock.

"You're all accustomed to bullets and blood coming from one of these," Laufeyson said. 

There was no hint of Swedish in his accent, it was pure, cut-glass English. He wouldn't have been out of place in an Eton schoolroom. He'd only spoken a few words on the night of the raid, but Coulson remembered that voice, and he suppressed a shiver.

"I thought you said he was Odinson's brother," Stark said.

"Adopted brother."

"Ah."

Laufeyson smiled. "What if I told you that I've found a new way to fight. No bullets, no blood, no mess to scrub away, but a weapon so powerful that whoever has it will own the battlefield before the first shot is fired. Allow me to demonstrate."

He turned and raised the rifle to his shoulder. At the far end of the paddock, a loud squeal floated on the breeze and a pig waddled into view followed by several chickens. Out of the corner of his eye, Coulson saw Peggy frown; she hadn't expected the birds.

Laufeyson lowered his head and sighted down the barrel. His finger squeeze the trigger and a bolt of brilliant blue shot out of the rifle, leaving a burning after-image on Coulson's eyes as it streaked through the air and struck the pig, which stiffened and fell over instantly. More bright blue shots caught the chickens, one by one, and they collapsed where they stood without so much as a squawk. The rifle killed all the animals in less time than it took Coulson to draw breath, and it did so silently.

An awed silence fell, and two more chickens wandered into view. Laufeyson set the rifle down on the table and reached inside his coat to pull out a small handgun. Blue fire streaked out and killed the birds as silently as its larger cousin.

He laid the gun down on the table and spun to face the crowd, a wide smile creasing his face. It made Coulson's skin crawl.

"I think you'll agree it's a weapon worth your attention," Laufeyson said, his green eyes dancing. "I'm open to any offers you might want to discuss with me. Thank you for your time, gentlemen, ladies." He nodded to Peggy. "My lady. I assure you, the chickens are still good to eat."

Then he dropped the guns back in their case, closed it, and began walking back to the house.

"Shit," Stark said.

Coulson nodded his agreement with the sentiment.

***

There was a note waiting on Coulson's pillow when he retired that evening, written in Peggy's messy scrawl. It was probably a good thing she hadn't been able to spare a footman to valet for him; if anyone saw the note, rumours would fly.

Coulson hadn't been disappointed at the lack of valet. He'd managed perfectly well before Clint arrived in his life, and the thought of another man taking Clint's place made his heart twist painfully. Falling in love with his valet was complicated, they kept bumping into barriers and confusions they hadn't expected, but he'd been happier in the last few months than he'd ever dreamed possible. If he couldn't get Clint back--and that was a thought he'd been trying not to allow in--then he'd rather manage alone than take another valet.

When Coulson crept down to the library after the household went silent for the night, he was unsurprised to find Stark and Natasha already waiting. They held up their own notes when he waved his.

Darcy was more of a surprise, but after a moment's thought, Coulson didn't know why he hadn't expected her. Where Natasha went, Darcy went, and he should be used to it by now.

She smiled sympathetically and moved to his side to say, quietly, "Sorry about Clint. Natasha told me what happened."

"We'll find a way to get him back," Coulson said, keeping his face blank.

Darcy grinned. "Of course you will! Natasha said the kids woke up just fine, no sign of mind-control, and so did the guy she hit over the head."

Coulson frowned and looked over at Natasha. "The children are awake?"

A faint flush appeared high on Natasha's pale cheeks, but she didn't drop her gaze. She moved close enough to keep her voice low with a quick glance in Stark's direction; he was busy surveying Peggy's bookshelves. "The children woke up yesterday afternoon. I spoke to the doctor--he thinks they were fighting whatever Laufeyson did to them and their minds became overwhelmed. That's why they were unconscious."

"But they're free now?"

"Their eyes are normal and they didn't immediately try to run off and rejoin Laufeyson." A wry smile hovered at the corners of Natasha's mouth. "I suspect most of them have disappeared by now, though. Your friend is resourceful. I made sure an announcement was put in the Times with the details of their recovery and the hospital they were in."

Coulson nodded, trying to feel relieved. "Thank you."

"You seemed preoccupied and I know the system isn't always good for children like them."

There was a shadow in her eyes, and Coulson noticed Darcy's hand slipping into Natasha's, squeezing her fingers. The shadow didn't fade, but the lost, pinched look in Natasha's face melted away, replaced with a warm smile.

"You said one of the men woke up," Coulson prompted.

"He woke up a couple of days ago," Natasha said. "He seems fine. The others...as far as I can tell, the other men are still Laufeyson's. The police have them locked up or chained to their beds, to keep them from leaving. None of them had head injuries. Bruises, broken bones, and a stomach wound the doctors expect to be fatal, but no head wounds."

"So if we can find Clint..." Coulson trailed off.

Natasha nodded. "The only way to wake him up might be to hit him on the head really, really hard."

"I'm not sure I can."

"I can," Natasha said.

The door opened, and Coulson turned his head to see Peggy stride in with a purposeful expression.

"Good, you got my notes," she said, pushing the door shut behind her. "Miss Lewis, I don't remember inviting you."

Darcy grinned. "I'm correcting your oversight."

Peggy eyed her for a moment, before rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. "Fine, you can stay."

Stark put down the book he'd been flipping through. "What have you got?"

"Who says I have anything?"

"The fact that we're all here says you've got something."

Peggy sighed. "Mr Laufeyson appears to be playing the German minister against the Austria-Hungary minister and dropping hints there might be a third party from the Balkans interested. Whoever he sells to, it will change the balance of power on the Continent in ways that can't be good for anyone."

Stark smirked. "Angry he didn't accept the British offer?"

Peggy lifted her chin. "We didn't make one. Or not a real one, anyway. We wanted to know who was serious about this new weapon, see their cards, and that was all. I though he was selling something normal, an automatic rifle that doesn't blow up after five rounds or a faster steam carriage, not a device out of an H. G. Wells novel. We can't let anyone have this weapon, not even the British Government. Whoever gets it will almost have to start something, if only to prove to their neighbours they're the superior power now."

"That's your professional opinion?" Stark asked.

"It is," Peggy said. "It's also my personal opinion. I'm not sure that's much difference, actually."

"What do your handlers think?" Natasha asked.

Peggy smiled. "They don't think anything yet, but they'll agree with whatever I tell them."

Natasha's eyebrows rose and Darcy looked intrigued.

Coulson wasn't surprised. Peggy had been working for the Foreign Office for at least ten years, and if they didn't trust her to assess the situation and make the right decision, they were fools. In his experience, the kind of people Peggy worked for were many things, but foolish was low on the list.

"So," Coulson said, "you need us to stop Laufeyson before he actually delivers his weapons."

"That would be helpful, yes," Peggy said. "Do you have a plan?"

"Not yet." There was a tapping sound at one of the windows, and Coulson frowned. "Were you expecting someone?"

Peggy shook her head and marched to the window, pulling back the curtain to reveal Rogers and Barnes. They wore matching expressions of guilty surprise. Peggy unlatched the window and pushed it open.

"What on earth are you two doing here?" she said.

Rogers offered a small smile. "Hello, Peggy."

"Does everyone know you?" Stark asked.

Peggy rolled her eyes at him and turned back to Rogers. "You're with them, I take it?"

Barnes nodded, "Yes, ma'am. My lady. Shit, Steve, what am I supposed to call her again?"

"Peggy will do," she said.

A wry smile softened Barnes's face. "Thanks, Peggy. We're with them. We found the dirigible, thought you'd all be interested in taking a look."

Coulson's heart leapt. Clint. Maybe...

He forced his face into a calm, neutral expression. The sympathetic look Darcy sent told him she hadn't missed the momentary burst of hope, but nobody else looked his way.

"Where is it?" Stark said. His eyes narrowed. "Where's Pepper?"

"Uh, that's something else we needed to tell you," Rogers said.

***

Laufeyson's dirigible was two miles from the northern edge of the Carter estate. It was no wonder they hadn't seen it when they flew in: the dirigible was almost invisible in the dark with no running lights, and a hill hid it from view by day. The land up there was rough and wild, on the edge of a ridgeway that couldn't be farmed because most of it was on steep slopes. When Coulson asked how Rogers and Barnes had found it, they had only muttered something about maps, guesswork, and logical deductions.

"He must have hiked across country to the train station," Peggy had said as she traced a finger over the map. "He didn't really look the type. His shoes were so clean."

Natasha's smile had been bitter. "It wouldn't have been difficult to leave some luggage at the station a few days early, just in case. Or even get one of his people to bring it for him. He seems like the type to have back-up plans for his back-up plans."

Persuading Stark to stay behind hadn't been easy. There had been a moment when Coulson thought he was going to have to do something drastic--punch him, or tie him to a chair--before Peggy talked him round. In comparison, the brief hissed argument Natasha had with Darcy looked almost civilised. Darcy threw them frustrated glares as they left, but she didn't follow them, and Coulson trusted Peggy to make sure nobody slipped out behind her back.

In the end, Coulson and Natasha were the only ones who followed Rogers and Barnes over moonlit fields and gardens, and then over hills covered with gorse and littered with rocks perfectly positioned to trip the unwary. They found Pepper behind a particularly dense thicket, just over the hill, where they wouldn't be silhouetted against the skyline if anyone looked up at them.

Coulson squinted, but he could barely make out the bulge of the dirigible's envelope, even in the moonlight. In fact, the envelope didn't bulge at all: it had been allowed to partially deflate and drape over the gondola, blending so well with it surroundings that, if it hadn't been pointed out to him, Coulson would never have seen it at all. If it could be re-inflated quickly, it would be a formidable weapon even without the death ray Loki had demonstrated. It could lurk unseen almost anywhere, only to rise up and drop incendiaries on an unsuspecting enemy before anyone could raise the alarm and bring up their own aerial defences.

"Any movement?" Barnes asked.

Pepper shook her head. "Unless they're as invisible as their machine, they haven't stirred since you left."

"Good," Rogers said. "You should get back to your dirigible."

A mulish expression flattened Pepper's lips. "If you're sending me back because you think I can't help--"

"We're sending you back because we might need to take off in a hurry," Natasha said. "We need you to make sure we don't get left behind again, and none of us know how to fly."

"I can steer a dirigible," Rogers said, "and I can tell you where to aim a broadside from your flame-throwers, but I haven't the first notion of how to make a ship float."

Coulson doubted that, but he kept his mouth shut. This wasn't the time.

Pepper narrowed her eyes, but she couldn't find a good argument. "Fine, I'll make sure we're ready to push away if we need to."

"We'll try to make sure you don't have to," Barnes said, with a crooked grin.

"I'll hold you to that," Pepper said. "Tony can fly far better than I can."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "That's what he'd like to believe, anyway."

Pepper shot her a quick grin before starting to crawl away from the thicket.

"Should one of us go after her?" Barnes said. "Make sure she's safe?"

As Pepper began to scramble up the slope to head back towards the Carter estate, Coulson caught a glimpse of a familiar shape in her hand: one of the electric pistols Stark had distributed when they stormed the Crystal Palace. The army might not have wanted them, but he'd seen the damage they could do to an automaton; Coulson was confident one shot would disable a human for long enough for Pepper to get away.

"She'll be fine," he said, turning his attention back to the dirigible in the hollow below them. "Do you know how many people Laufeyson brought with him?"

Rogers made an unhappy face. "We saw two men earlier, making some repairs."

"Anyone else?" Natasha asked.

Barnes shrugged one shoulder. "Coulson's side-kick was out early, staring up at the sky. Don't know why. He went back inside and we haven't seen him since."

"If there's anyone else in there," Rogers said, "we haven't seen them."

"It doesn't look big enough for anyone else," Coulson said. "At least, not comfortably. Although if they're all mind-controlled the way Cl--Barton is, they might not object to cramped conditions."

Barnes scowled. "They won't notice. All they'll care about is doing what their controller told them."

A matching frown creased Natasha's brow when Coulson stole a glance at her. If the heat of her glare had been physical, the dirigible would have burst into flames immediately. Coulson knew even less about Barnes than he knew about Natasha, but if they shared similar backgrounds and she really had been part of the Tsar's private army of mind-wiped assassins, he could understand their mutual loathing of what Loki had done.

"We need to know what the situation is down there before we go in," Rogers said. "Four against three would make this easy. Four against ten would be something else."

"Leave that to me," Natasha said.

Coulson caught a fierce grin before she vanished into the thicket of gorse with barely a rustle.

"Will she be all right?" Rogers asked.

"Trust me," Barnes said, "I'd be more worried about them than her right now."

"She's that good?"

"She's better than you ever want to know."

***

Natasha was gone for long enough for Coulson to start worrying, despite everything he'd seen her do. Rogers looked uncomfortable, too, but Barnes stared down at the dirigible with no outward sign of concern. Hopefully it was because she was that good and not because he had an impenetrable poker face.

When Natasha did reappear, Coulson didn't see where she came from: one moment there was no sign of her, the next, she was at his side with barely a hair out of place.

"He's in there," she said grimly. "It's tight quarters, though. There are six of them and barely enough space to swing a cat. I don't know where they're sleeping, if they are."

Coulson swallowed. "How does he look?"

Natasha leaned past him to catch Rogers's eye. "There's only one door. You know dirigibles--is there likely to be an entrance on top of the gondola?"

"Probably," Rogers said. "They'll need a way to get up to the envelope if they need to patch or fix any rigging in midair, and they won't want to use the side-door if they can avoid it."

"Would you be able to find it?"

"Maybe." Rogers made a face. "If they hadn't partially deflated, it would be easier."

"Can you find it quietly, without alerting anyone?"

"I guess I'll have to, won't I?"

"You've got a plan?" Barnes said.

"Part of one, yes," Natasha said. "If you're up to leading the charge."

"Like you ever have to ask."

Rogers set out first, disappearing into the low brush almost as quietly as Natasha. Barnes threw a dark knitted hat at him as he left, to hide his blond hair, and he was gone.

"Always forgets about moonlight on his hair," Barnes said. "He didn't do enough sneaking around. That's what captaining airships'll do to you."

They waited a few minutes, and Coulson had to clench his fists to stop himself tapping his fingers on his thigh. Barnes must have eyes as sharp as Clint's, because he suddenly tensed and made a satisfied sound.

"He's found it," he said.

Natasha nodded. "Let's go."

Barnes took the lead, moving in a low crouch that hurt Coulson's back to emulate, but it covered the ground fast. Coulson followed with Natasha beside him; she showed no sign of discomfort at the awkward running position. It probably didn't feel unnatural to her, if she'd done this a few times before. Sneaking through the streets and over the roofs of London was much easier than this cross-country stumble.

"How did Clint look?" Coulson asked when they were still out of earshot of the dirigible. He kept his voice low, anyway. He didn't want Barnes to hear the worry in his voice.

Natasha didn't look at him. "Tired."

"And?"

"Just...tired."

He nodded and didn't ask again.

They paused behind another thicket of gorse, twenty feet from the dirigible, and Coulson tried to take some deep breaths, calm down. Clint was in there, only a few feet away, and if he got this wrong--if he let his feelings distract him and lead him the wrong way--he might ruin the best chance he had of getting Clint back unharmed.

Relatively unharmed. They still didn't have a way to free Clint of the mind-control without hitting him over the head hard enough to knock him out. Could he judge his blow carefully enough to avoid doing serious damage?

Natasha's eyes narrowed. She raised her hand, paused for a moment that felt like a life time...and then she slashed her hand down.

Barnes leapt up and soared over the gorse thicket in one huge bound. Natasha and Coulson followed him around the thicket, fractionally slower, so Barnes reached the dirigible's side door a couple of seconds before them. One blow from his metal arm forced it open with a sound of splintering wood, fragments of the frame flying in all directions, and Bucky was inside with Natasha and Coulson hot on his heels.

They burst into a tiny cabin with a map table bolted to the floor in the centre and the dirigible's steering assembly on the left. A narrow door on their rightt had to lead to the engine compartment: the gondola wasn't large enough for it to lead to anything else. One man was standing at the map table, although he didn't seem to care about the maps pinned to it; he had a gun disassembled on top of them and he'd been cleaning it. A normal gun, not one of Laufeyson's death rays, Coulson was relieved to note.

Three other men sprang up from where they'd been sitting on the floor. Coulson had a moment to wonder where Clint and the sixth man were, before he had to duck and roll out of the way of a wildly swinging fist. Barnes charged straight at the man by the map table, sending them both flying over it and into a wall with his powerful tackle. Coulson kicked out and caught someone's knee, painfully from the sudden shout, before he scrambled to his feet and plunged into the fright. Natasha seemed to be holding her own, despite her smaller size. There was no time to observe more than that, though, because it was four against three and Coulson wasn't used to fighting in such cramped quarters. Surviving and getting in a few punches of his own were all he could manage.

The two men who converged on him had blank expressions and bright blue eyes. He reared back to avoid a clumsy punch and the corner of the map table jabbed his hip. He ignored the pain, grabbed for one man's neck, and twisted to the side so he could slam the man's head down onto the table. It must have hurt, it should have been enough to stun him, but whatever Laufeyson's staff did to these people, it made them much harder to take out. The man shook off the blow and came for Coulson again as his friend jumped over the table to help the one still struggling with Barnes.

Coulson jabbed and ducked, using every trick he knew, but his back met the gondola wall far too quickly. There wasn't enough space.

The door to the engine compartment slammed open, and Coulson's attention shifted from his own fight. Only for a moment, but it was enough for his opponent to slam an elbow into his ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs and forcing him to curl over. A blow landed on the back of his neck, sending him to his knees.

Coulson looked up, eyes watering, in time to see Clint march over to Natasha and pulled her off the man she was fighting. His face was as blank as the rest of Laufeyson's men as he twisted his hand cruelly in her hair, but she kicked back, dragging her boot down his shin before stomping on his toes. As he staggered back, she spun around and drove the heel of her hand up against his chin, snapping his head back.

A blow caught Coulson in his kidneys and he had to stop watching and defend himself, despite the aches and bruises. His opponent wasn't skilled, but he was tough and determined, and he didn't seem to feel the hits the way Coulson did. It had to be Laufeyson's mind-control. Coulson scrambled to his feet and ducked to the side, allowing his opponent to punch the wall instead of his jaw. It had to have hurt--Coulson was sure he heard bones break--but his opponent didn't swear or even hiss. He simply swung a backhand blow that Coulson couldn't avoid.

He might have gone on, except that was when Rogers decided to make his dramatic entrance. A panel in the roof pulled up and Rogers dropped down, on top of the man Coulson was fighting.

The man didn't get up this time.

Coulson gasped his thanks and Rogers nodded before turning to help Barnes with the two men he was fighting. Natasha and Clint had squared off, eyeing each other over the unconscious body of her other attacker. Blood dripped down Clint's face from a cut over his eye and a bruise was already forming on his chin. Natasha's hair looked a little mussed, but there was no visible sign of injury.

There was no way this could end well and Coulson was aware that with each passing minute, Laufeyson could return with one of his death ray guys, or perhaps something even worse. One of the men was already starting to stir, groaning softly, and they had no way to know whether he would wake up himself or not.

Clint wouldn't want this. He wouldn't want to be fighting his oldest friend, trying to kill her. Coulson knew that and he knew what he had to do. There was no way to judge his blow, no way to predict what would happen or whether it would even work.

He picked up the half-cleaned rifle where it had fallen to the floor and hit Clint across the back of his head with all the strength he had.

Clint collapsed without a word.

Coulson dropped his weapon, crouched, and pressed his fingers against Clint's neck. He didn't dare to breathe until he felt the reassuring steady pulse against his fingertips.

He felt someone at his shoulder and twisted, raising his fist. Natasha stepped back with her hands raised.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Alive," Coulson said, grimly.

"Good. Then we have to get out of here."

In the corner, Barnes and Rogers had their opponents on the floor. Coulson only counted four groaning men, though.

"One of them ran," Natasha said. "Probably straight for Laufeyson."

"Undoubtedly," Coulson said.

Rogers moved closer. "Need a hand with him?"

"I can do it," Coulson said. He grabbed Clint's hands and pulled, trying to get into position to lift Clint onto his shoulder. It was no good, though. They might be a similar height, but Clint was muscular where Coulson was wiry, and Coulson staggered as he tried to stand under Clint's weight.

Rogers frowned and exchanged a glance with Barnes. "Here, I've got him. We'll take turns."

Reluctantly, Coulson allowed Rogers to swing Clint up onto his shoulders with no more effort than if Clint had been a sack of potatoes. No more elegance, either, but that wasn't important right now.

"Where do we go?" Barnes asked. "We can't take him back to the house."

"Stark's dirigible," Natasha said. "It's closer."

Rogers nodded and led the way, Clint dangling from his shoulder with no effort. Coulson followed close enough to reach out and touch Clint's arm, just to reassure himself that Clint was with them again, alive and breathing.

Alive and breathing, but he'd have to wait to find out whether he had Clint's mind back, too.

# 

Chapter Thirteen

_Carter estate, Oxfordshire, October 11, 1908, before dawn_

Coulson held Clint's hand as he held vigil, watching for some sign that Clint was waking up. It couldn't be much longer. Clint would wake up any minute now. He had to, or Coulson would never forgive himself for being the one to hit him.

Clint was silent and still, not so much as a flicker.

It felt like he'd been here forever, but there was a clock above Clint's bed, and Coulson knew it had been less than an hour. Time had never passed so slowly in his life.

The cabin they had been given was beautiful, furnished with a level of luxury that bordered on hedonistic. It was clear who had been responsible for outfitting the dirigible. Even though the bed was barely wide enough for two, it looked sinfully comfortable. Coulson could imagine the lewd invitations Clint would have made if he was awake, and he missed them so fiercely it made his chest hurt. How was it possible to miss someone when he was right here, his hand warm and alive even though his face was still?

Coulson had never realised it was possible. He'd never loved someone so much he couldn't breathe when they were in danger. It was a revelation, and not one he was enjoying. If they--no, when they got home and this was all over, he would take Clint away for a while. They'd go somewhere quiet, somewhere private, where they could be together without worrying about what anyone else might think.

It wouldn't last forever. Coulson was honest enough to know he couldn't leave London and his role as the masked man completely, but for a while, he would allow himself to forget about their positions and the imbalances in their lives.

The cabin door opened and Coulson turned his head to see Natasha slip inside. Her eyes flickered to Clint's still form before refocusing on Coulson. "How is he?"

"I don't know," Coulson said.

She nodded. "You did what you had to."

"I know. It doesn't make me feel any better, though."

"He'll come round," she said. "He's got a hard head."

"What if he doesn't?"

"You didn't hit him that hard. Trust me, I know what it sounds like when you smash someone's skull to kill them."

Coulson frowned. "It's not about the force. There was a sergeant in my unit. He didn't hit his head very hard, but he died two days later, anyway. The doctors said it was the location and the angle that mattered as much as the force."

"He'll be fine," Natasha said. "Believe me."

"Then why isn't he waking up?"

"Doctor Banner thinks it takes a while for the brain to recover after the mind-control whammy gets knocked out of it." She shrugged. "What do I know? It's not my area. But I trust him, and the other man woke up eventually. So will Clint."

"Eventually seems like a long time to wait," Coulson said.

"We have visitors," Natasha said. "You could join us."

Coulson shook his head. "I should stay here. In case he wakes up."

Her eyes softened for a moment. "He'll be confused."

"Probably."

"I'll tell Odinson what we found," Natasha said. "I brought Jane and Darcy, too."

"Are you sure?"

"Did you want them staying in the same house as Laufeyson for a moment longer than they had to?"

"I suppose not."

"Your friend Peggy was writing letters when I left. I don't know how she plans to get them anywhere at this time in the morning, but I'm sure she has a way. She seems like the kind of woman who has more options than the Royal Mail."

"She does." Coulson hesitated, but one glance down at Clint firmed his resolve. Everything else could go hang until Clint woke up, even a war conference. "Did she have anything to tell you?"

Natasha nodded, looking grim. "Laufeyson practically has a deal signed with the Germans for his ray gun. They're meeting after breakfast to put ink on a contract."

"Where would he be able to manufacture enough for them?"

"That's why I brought Odinson with me," Natasha said.

Coulson sighed. "It's all tied to his family, isn't it?"

"Probably." Her eyes drifted to Clint. "I'll make sure nobody charges off into something foolish until he wakes up. He might know something."

"What happened to Laufeyson's minion?"

"That's the interesting thing," Natasha said. "We thought he'd gone back to the house--that's what I would have done--but he didn't. There was no sign of anyone entering or leaving the house until I got there, according to Peggy, and she's a woman I trust to be sure about something like that."

"Maybe he's waiting," Coulson said.

"For what?" Natasha reached out and squeezed Coulson's shoulder. "He'll wake up, you'll see. Peggy will send word the moment anything happens at the house, so all we can do for now is sit tight and wait."

"We could go in there and take Laufeyson into custody," Coulson said.

"For what? He's not a British subject, so we can't arrest him for selling arms to other nations, and his mind-control device is disgusting but not actually illegal under any laws I know."

Coulson's smile was thin. "I didn't know you were such a fan of the process of law."

Natasha scowled. "I'm not, but you brought a couple of policemen with you. Otherwise, I'd make sure Laufeyson didn't wake up again and all of this would be over by dawn."

"Even if doing that upset his brother?"

She sighed. "Life was easier before I got tangled up with you people."

"But much lonelier," Coulson said.

Natasha didn't say anything, but the fond glance she shot him as she left was all the reply he needed.

He turned back to the bed and lifted Clint's hand to his lips. "You'd better wake up soon, or you're going to miss all the fun. I don't think this is going to end peacefully."

***

Time ticked by. Slowly. Coulson heard occasional snatches of raised voices, muffled through the thin wooden walls, but he didn't let himself get distracted from his vigil. A tiny voice in his head insisted that if he left, even for a minute, Clint would wake up.

Or worse.

So he sat by the bed and waited.

His eyes were drifting shut against his will when Clint's fingers twitched. It was a tiny movement, so small he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't still been clutching Clint's hand, but it was real.

Hardly daring to breath, Coulson fixed his gaze on Clint's face. Staying awake wasn't an issue any more; his heart was hammering in his chest so hard, it made him feel a little dizzy.

After a long, agonising minute, Clint's eyelashes fluttered. His nose twitched. His lips parted and his eyes opened in slits.

"Ow," he said, his voice rusty.

Coulson smiled. His eyes felt damp, but he refused to let go of Clint's hand to wipe them. "Hello."

Clint winced and his eyes closed again. "Ow. Again."

"What hurts?"

"My head." His tongue flickered out to moisten his lips. "What happened?"

Coulson pressed the back of Clint's fingers against his lips for a moment. "What do you remember?"

"I don't..." Clint hesitated, a frown forming. "It's all jumbled up."

"Can you open your eyes?" Coulson asked.

"Too bright."

"I know, but just trust me. I need to see something."

Clint looked confused, but after another long pause, he opened his eyes to narrow slits.

Coulson leaned closer, but he couldn't see their colour. "Wider?"

"Phil--"

"Humour me?"

With a pained groan, Clint opened his eyes.

Coulson studied them for a moment, before letting out a relieved sigh. They were blue, but the right blue: human, ordinary blue with flecks of amber, changeable as the sea and as far from the glowing, terrifying blue as possible.

Clint squinted again. "What's going on? What's wrong with my eyes?"

"Nothing," Coulson said. "They're fine now. They're perfect."

"Ooo-kay." Clint licked his lips. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or do I have to get up...and...find..."

He trailed away, turning even paler, if that was possible. Coulson's heart ached for him as horror clouded his eyes, turning his expression sickly and revolted.

"What did I do?" Clint asked. "I don't--why did I do all that?" He started to sit up, but fell back with a faint groan. "I hit you. I almost let you get dragged off a roof by that dirigible. I tried to choke Natasha. Shit, Phil, what was all that?"

"Someone was controlling your mind," Coulson said, squeezing his hand tightly.

Clint shook his head. "It didn't feel...I wanted to do all that. I needed to. There was...something was in my head, but it didn't make me do those things."

"It made you want to do those things?"

After a long pause, Clint nodded jerkily. "I guess that's one way to describe it."

"It wasn't you," Coulson said. "None of it was you. Laufeyson--Doctor Odinson's brother--was controlling you. He made you do all of it."

"I did it, though." Clint turned his head away, distress drawing deep lines around his mouth. "It was my hands. My boot on your fingers."

Coulson opened his mouth, but no words would come. He didn't know what to say. This was so far outside his experience, he couldn't even imagine what it felt like.

All he could do was move from the chair to the edge of the bed, press his hip against Clint's and reach out to cup Clint's jaw. Rough stubble scratched his palm and Clint didn't turn to him.

"Yes, it was your body," Coulson said. "But it wasn't you, no matter what you remember. You would never hurt me--hurt Natasha!--if you were in your right mind."

"How do you know?" Clint's words were barely audible. "You've known me for a few months. Maybe I lied really well to you."

Coulson raised Clint's hand and pressed it against his chest, willing Clint to feel the steady thump of his heart and understand what he was trying to say. "I know you. If you can't trust yourself right now, trust me."

"And trust me," Natasha said from the doorway. When Coulson turned to her with a sharp glare, she shrugged her shoulders. "I heard voices. I thought you might need me."

"Nat..."

She didn't smile, but a gentle smile softened her eyes. "I'm here, and Phil's right. I know what it's like to have my mind taken apart and twisted into something else. Remember what you said when we met the first time?"

Clint swallowed and nodded.

"Same thing applies here," Natasha said. "But if you really want to find a way to make up for it, if that'll make you feel better, there's something you can do."

Slowly, Clint turned towards them, his eyes flickering between Natasha and Coulson restlessly. "What?"

"Tell us what he's planning," Natasha said, and a sharp, vicious smile curved her lips. "Help us stop him."

Silence fell for a long time, and Coulson had to bite his tongue against the words that wanted to spill out. He sensed they wouldn't help.

When Clint eventually his spoke, his eyes locked with Coulson's even though he directed his words to Natasha. "I'll tell you everything I can. Just let me come with you when you take him down."

"Can you aim straight?"

"Probably."

"Then I'll tell the others you're ready."

She left without another word, and Coulson immediately missed her. At least she knew what to say, and he clearly didn't.

Clint didn't drop his gaze, though. He stared at Coulson steadily, barely blinking. "You really still trust me."

Coulson nodded and, words failing again, he leaned down and brushed his lips across Clint's. For a moment, he thought he'd misjudged completely, but then Clint kissed him back and his lips were dry and tasted terrible, but a knot of tension loosened in Coulson's chest and he could breathe at last.

***

Dawn was a dull, angry red glow on the horizon by the time Clint was able to stand in the dirigible's small dining room, where they held a council of war. Coulson eyed the sky out of the window, wishing it didn't send a shiver down his spine.

"Red sky at night..." Natasha murmured as she took a seat on his other side.

He looked at her sharply. "You have that saying in Russia?"

"No, but I picked it up." She wrinkled her nose. "I hope it's just a saying."

He shrugged and turned his attention to the rest of the table. Stark and Pepper sat side by side across from him with pages of scribbles scattered in front of them. Coulson could make out half-finished sketches of devices and scratched out notes on some of the sheets. When he tilted his head to read them, Stark frowned and pulled the papers closer to himself.

Doctor Foster sat next to Pepper, with Doctor Odinson next to her. They weren't quite touching, but they sat far closer than an unmarried man and woman should sit in polite society. Coulson hoped they'd been more discreet at the house party, or rumours would fly even if an engagement was announced immediately.

Clint's warm presence against Coulson's shoulder was comforting, even if he did look too pale and his eyes were still red from lack of sleep. He hadn't told Coulson much yet, but it seemed Laufeyson wasn't concerned about the health of the people he enslaved.

Rogers sat at the head of the table, but there was no sign of Barnes.

Coulson was wondering why Darcy was missing, when the door opened and she tumbled through followed by Peggy Carter. Darcy was breathless and her cheeks were pink, but Peggy was cooly elegant as always and she wore a riding habit. It was a good explanation for why she'd left her house so early, at least. If she hadn't detoured to a drop for her letters on the way, Coulson would eat his hat.

Darcy hurried to take a seat next to Natasha, almost tripping on her chair in her eagerness. Peggy took her seat at the bottom of the table more casually, but when she leaned forward, her eyes were intent.

"Mr Barton," she said. "What do you know about Laufeyson's deal with the German government?"

Clint's lips went flat. "Nothing."

Peggy studied him for a moment, before sighing and sitting back in her chair. "Damn."

Doctor Odinson's eyes widened, but other than a small smile from Stark, nobody else reacted to the curse, not even Rogers.

"But I do know what all of this is for," Clint said.

"I know already," Doctor Odinson said. "My brother wishes to return to our father with contracts more valuable than anything our company has ever seen before. He thinks to use them as leverage to become head of the company, and my father will persuade the board to allow it. After all, the new weapons he has designed will make everyone wealthy. My father may even be willing to overlook the theft of our heirlooms."

Stark shot him an angry glare. "He'd be willing to forget that your brother has built weapons that can kill slaughter people en mass?"

Coulson sighed. "I thought your family were supposed to protect the world from your heirlooms, not sell the weapons they can create to the highest bidder."

"We are," Odinson said. "My father does not see the world as I see it. His way of thinking is more pragmatic."

"He looks at profits first," Darcy said, with a wry smile. "If your brother can make a lot of money with his new death rays, your dad will overlook how he did it and focus on the money rolling in."

Odinson inclined his head.

"It's more than that," Clint said. "People don't buy weapons when they're at peace. Or they do, but not as much. Not enough to make the kind of money Loki wants."

Peggy's eyes widened and her lips moved on a silent curse. Coulson didn't need to hear it to know what she said, it was there in her expression. Around the table, almost everyone was staring at Clint uncomprehendingly, except for Natasha. Of course she was only other person to work out what he meant.

"Loki wants a war," Clint said. "He's playing everyone against everyone else, and he's going to make sure that within six months, half of Europe is fighting the other half. Then the people who haven't bought his new weapons yet will have to make a deal, and he'll do whatever it takes to keep the wars going."

"He can't just make a war happen," Rogers protested. "Can he?"

Peggy tilted her head thoughtfully. "It would explain some of the meetings he's been having. I've got representatives from four different governments here, but none of them are powerful enough--or stupid enough--to create a diplomatic incident that would start a way."

"He doesn't need to start it this weekend," Natasha said. "He's got a mind-control device. They can go home and do it whenever it's convenient for him."

"Won't everyone notice the glowing blue eyes?" Rogers said.

"Only if they're looking for them," Natasha said. "If you didn't know what it meant and you saw someone with bright blue eyes, would you think there's anything wrong?"

Rogers opened his mouth, but his expression grew troubled and he closed it again.

"I'd probably notice if they really glowed," Darcy said. "But I guess it would have to be pretty dark for the eyes to stand out, wouldn't it? I mean, your blue-eyed thieves were walking around London stealing stuff for weeks and nobody stopped them."

"I really hate mind-control," Stark muttered.

Clint's smile was bitter. "You don't know the half of it."

Coulson pressed his knee against Clint's, trying to comfort him, and some of the anger smoothed away. He couldn't do any more. "Do you know where Loki is now?"

Peggy nodded. "When I left, he was still in bed. Nobody has contacted us, so he must still be in the house. I told my people to send a message the moment he tried to leave. He's supposed to be meeting the German minister after breakfast, so I don't expect him to sneak out."

"What colour are the German minister's eyes?" Coulson asked.

"Blue," Peggy said, and her expression soured. "So it will be difficult to tell whether he's under Loki's control unless we can get him into a dark room and confirm they glow."

Odinson's expression turned grim. "I begin to see the scale of the chaos Loki would cause, all to make money and take our father's place."

Stark snorted. "Never underestimate what someone will do for money and a chance to show they're better than their daddy."

Clint shifted in his chair. "That's all great, and it's good to know why he wants to turn half the world into a smoking hole for fun and profit, but we need a plan to stop him." All eyes turned to him, and he sank lower in his seat, a bright flush staining his cheeks. "I'm just the valet, but all the sitting around talking isn't going to do anything. We need to get back to the house, grab him, and lock him up."

"I don't have the authority," Rogers said.

"I didn't ask if you've got the authority," Clint said. "I said, we need to lock him up somewhere before he does something we can't stop."

"I have the authority," Peggy said cheerfully. "I've already sent word to the people I work for and we'll have support within a couple of hours. We just need to get back to my house and--"

She broke off as an alarm began sounding.

Stark swore. "Someone's trying to get into my ship."

"It might be one of my people," Peggy said.

"Or it might be Laufeyson's people," Coulson said.

Rogers stood. "We'd better find out, then."

***

The man who stumbled inside the dirigible when Stark opened the main hatch wore the Carter livery and had blood running down his face. His eyes were reassuringly brown. Rogers caught him and lowered him carefully to the deck while Stark checked outside before slamming the hatch shut.

One eye was already swelling shut and blood matted the man's hair, which probably accounted for the unfocused way his eyes moved around the group until they fell on Peggy. Under the dirt and blood, relief stood out plain on his face.

"Ma'am!" His teeth were as bloody as the rest of him, and he spoke with a slight lisp. Coulson would not have been surprised if a couple of his teeth had been knocked out, but the footman didn't let the pain or the missing tooth stop him. "Ma'am, we've been overrun. Tricked in our beds by our own people."

Peggy pushed through the crowd to crouch beside her man, without a care for the blood staining her skirt. "Fletch, what happened?"

The explanation was slow, stuttering, with long breaks to cough and grimace. After one bad bout, Peggy ordered Rogers to carry her footman into one of the cabins, where a comfortable bed helped him to breathe more easily, although Coulson had a bad feeling about his prospects if he didn't see a doctor soon. He'd been beaten badly and he seemed to have a few broken ribs, in addition to a broken cheekbone and missing teeth. From what he described, he'd been lucky.

Or he'd been canny enough to escape and raise the alarm rather than continuing a losing fight. It would be just like Peggy to train her staff for any eventuality, including something like this.

Although none of her training could have prepared men like Fletch to be forced to fight their own friends. 

Laufeyson must have been warned about the attack on his dirigible, even though none of his men had approached the house. By the time anyone realised he'd left his bed, Laufeyson had turned two footmen, the butler, the gardener's boy, and the German minister's valet into his blue-eyed slaves. Then they turned on Fletch and the other servants Peggy had left guarding the house; Fletch escaped, but he didn't know what had happened to the others.

"I knew you needed to know," Fletch said, "but I hated leaving them."

Peggy pushed his hair back from his face. "You did the right thing. You followed my orders--I told you to tell me the moment Mr Laufeyson did anything odd, didn't I?"

"Yes, ma'am." Fletch's lips twisted. "And it was right odd, what he did. Turning a fellow's eyes blue and telling Frank to hit Cook when all she did was wander out of her room at the wrong moment."

"Do you know where Mr Laufeyson is now?" Peggy asked.

Fletch shook his head and winced. "No, ma'am. He was going upstairs the last time I saw him, before Eddings clouted me over the head and I lost track of a few things. What's he up to?"

Rogers had been frowning since he pulled Fletch into the dirigible, and his frown had grown deeper with each new part to the story. "Did you see anyone else? A man, with a metal arm?"

"Metal arm?" Fletch looked puzzled. "Was I meant to?"

Rogers opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by the dirigible's alarm sounding again.

Stark made a disgusted sound. "It's like Paddington Station in here. Aren't we supposed to be hiding?"

Pepper patted his arm. "You painted the envelope red and gold and it's the size of a barn. We can't hide anywhere."

Coulson exchanged a glance with Clint, who offered him a tired smile and nodded to Rogers. They followed him back to the main hatch and watched as Rogers carefully opened it, all three men tensed and ready in case this time their unexpected visitor wasn't friendly.

Barnes glowered at them. "Took you long enough! We've got a problem."

Rogers beckoned him in and closed the hatch. "We noticed. One of Peggy's men got to us and filled us in."

"Did he tell you Laufeyson left the house with two other men?" Barnes made a face. "Last I saw, they were heading for his dirigible, but I'm willing to admit that I can't take on all of his men and a flying fortress on my own."

"Does he still hold the house?" Coulson asked.

"Probably," Barnes said. "I don't know what happened, but I think he knows he's been rumbled and his plans are collapsing, so he's going on the run."

Clint's lips turned down. "I really want to put an arrow in that guy's eye."

"You might still get a chance," Barnes said. "We need to get this contraption in the air so we can follow him. I doubt he's got Peggy's footmen with him, and we can't let him get away with members of a foreign government or a foreign weapon manufacturer. Pretty sure Inspector Fury would have our heads if we let that happen."

Coulson chuckled. "I don't think our government would be happy, either. He'll push us into a war we're not ready for if he kidnaps German ministers on our soil."

"Damn," Peggy said, behind them. She moved like a cat. "He's right. You can't let Laufeyson escape."

"I don't intend to," Rogers said, looking grim. "I'll make Stark put this machine in the air as soon as you get out."

"I'm not staying behind!" Peggy said.

Coulson turned towards her and smiled gently. "We're not leaving you behind. You need to take your house back and contact your people in the Foreign Office to stop this escalating. You can't do that if you're chasing across the country in a dirigible."

Peggy looked annoyed, but she was practical and logical, too. "Fine. I'll stay on the ground. Just try not to get yourselves killed or mind-controlled, please. I don't like burying friends."

"We'll do our best," Coulson said.

"I definitely won't be getting mind-controlled again," Clint said, with a visible shudder.

Rogers nodded. "Good. Bucky, go with her."

"But I--" Bucky broke off and there was a silent communication of looks and eyebrow twitches before he gave in and nodded. "Fine, I'll go. But you'll owe me if you get to have fun while I'm doing the boring part."

Peggy's smile was fierce, edging into vicious. She reached into the reticule swinging from her wrist and pulled out a tiny pistol. "I don't think Captain Rogers will be the only one having fun. I've got a good friend in there and I intend to get her back."

"I see why you liked her," Bucky said, elbowing Rogers in the ribs.

Clint laughed, and a tiny corner of Coulson's heart lightened. If Clint could still laugh, then he was going to be all right. Everything would be all right eventually.

They just needed to bring down a dirigible without accidentally killing or maiming the foreign officials in the craft and starting the war they were trying to prevent. Piece of cake.

***

Heavy clouds filled the sky as Stark's dirigible rose into the air, so dark they were almost black, with a sickly green tinge on the horizon that promised thunder. Travelling in a dirigible in the middle of a storm didn't seem like a good idea to Coulson, but they didn't have any choice. If Laufeyson was in his, they had to chase him or risk letting everything escalate into a war no one could afford yet.

Coulson stood in a corner of the bridge with Clint next to him, arms crossed over their chests and shoulders pressed together. The familiar warmth at his side made Coulson's breathing easier, his head clearer, and he wasn't afraid to admit it. Even a few days without Clint had been too long. He needed Clint here, at his side, even if they were flying into danger with no guarantee they would come out the other side.

The bridge wasn't large, barely bigger than Coulson's study, and a good part of the space was filled with the wheel and a board of switches and levers for piloting the dirigible. Thick glass windows filled the upper halves of three walls, giving a wide range of vision, although in this weather, that only gave more opportunity to see the heavy clouds.

A low rumble of thunder, just audible over the engines, made Coulson's palms sweat. Thunder usually meant lightning, and they were travelling in a small wooden gondola suspended beneath bags of flammable gas. It would be enough to make anyone nervous.

He kept his gaze focused on Rogers, standing at the wheel and peering out through the front window. If Rogers could stay relaxed and focused, then so would Coulson. Rogers knew better than anyone aboard what the dangers of a dirigible could be: he'd been a captain in the Royal Aerial Fleet, and he'd been in multiple sky battles. He'd even survived his ship's crash into the ocean.

Clint nudged him. "I could ask him to sign your clippings album, you know. When this is over."

Coulson felt the tips of his ears turn pink. "That won't be necessary."

"Aw, sir," Clint said. "He probably wouldn't mind."

"I'd mind," Coulson said. He risked a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, and the teasing smile on Clint's lips made the air catch in his throat for a moment. If they were alone, he would kiss that smile, taste it and memorise its shape with his tongue. He turned back to watching Rogers instead. "You should read some of the articles."

"I like it better when you read them to me."

Rogers leaned forward slightly, and Coulson's next retort died unsaid.

"I think I've found him." Rogers pointed. "Is that his craft?"

Coulson crossed the bridge with Clint on his heels and he peered out, but rain was starting to stream down the glass and he could only make out a dark blob against the black clouds. Next to him, Clint drew in a sharp breath.

"That's it," Clint said, his voice harsh. "That's his ship."

"You're sure?" Rogers said.

"Who else has a black dirigible out here?"

"I've never seen anything that small move so fast."

Clint's lips looked pinched. "Trust me, that's the ship. I've got good eyes and I remember every detail. Can you make this thing go faster?"

Rogers nodded and pressed a button on the side of the column holding the huge wheel. From the curse shouted down the corridor from the engine room, it sent a message for Stark to put more steam on--or whatever powered this machine. Coulson still wasn't clear on how it worked, only that the vibrations in the deck planks under his boots increased and he could feel it go faster.

Another rumble of thunder rolled around them, louder this time. Closer.

"Are we safe up here?" Coulson asked.

Rogers shrugged. "You're never safe in a dirigible, but I've flown through worse."

"Yeah, but your ship crashed," Clint said. "That doesn't give me much confidence."

"My ship crashed after a few broadsides from ships armed with flamethrowers and cannons," Rogers said. "That's not what we're facing here, is it?"

Clint grimaced. "Nobody asked me that."

Rogers frowned. "Mr Barton, what is Laufeyson armed with?"

"Couple of flamethrowers," Clint said. "And he's got a big version of his death ray gun installed on the right side."

"Right side facing forward?" Rogers said.

"Yes."

"Starboard, then."

"Does it matter?"

"It does in an aerial fight."

Coulson sighed. "And we're unarmed."

"Of course we aren't," Stark said from the doorway. His goggles were pushed up on his forehead and a thick smear of grease ran down his face and halfway down his previously clean white shirt. "This ship has a few tricks up here sleeve. What do you need?"

Coulson pointed to the small blob on the horizon. "More speed to catch that dirigible, and then we'll need some firepower to take her down."

To take her down carefully," Rogers said. "We can't afford to accidentally kill a German minister."

"That's your department," Stark said. "I'll give you the weapons, but you're the expert in aerial combat. Pepper and I'll just make sure this thing keeps flying while you do it."

"Then get me nearer," Rogers said, "and show these men how your tricks work. We need to catch Laufeyson before he hits open water, or we won't be able to take him out of the sky safely."

Stark grinned. "I think you'll like what I've got."

***

The ship had more than a few tricks, hidden under the luxurious trappings with an ingenuity that reminded Coulson he wasn't just dealing with a hedonistic playboy. A lever made the wide beds in the cabins swing up against the walls with a pneumatic hiss, revealing hatches to feed incendiary devices into. A switch pulled down the watercolours decorating each of those cabins, which turned out to be hiding portholes where massive flame-throwing cannons could be positioned.

The dining cabin, where Darcy, Natasha, Doctor Foster, and Odinson had been talking quietly until Stark interrupted them, had an armoury hidden behind the drinks cabinet. The table concealed another hatch with bundles of rope ladders tucked into the sideboard. Shutters clanked down over the wide windows in every cabin except the bridge, and a wire mesh descended to provide some protection even there.

"Old habits die hard," Stark said, when Coulson shot him a hard look. "I'm not going to sell one of these, but I like to know I can protect myself if I have to." He glanced over his shoulder, towards the engine room. "I need to know I can protect my people."

"Stark, I need more altitude." Rogers's voice floated out of a small grille set in the ceiling. "Laufeyson's climbing fast and we need to climb faster."

"Can we?" Clint asked. "His ship is lighter than us."

Stark's lips set in a grim line. "Whatever his ship can do, mine can do it better."

A smile twitched at the corner of Natasha's mouth, and Coulson had to bite the inside of his lip to stop himself reacting. He had a good idea of why she was laughing.

"Stark!" Rogers's voice was sharp, even though the tubes carrying it added a breathy quality to it. "I need height and I need some firepower."

"You got this?" Stark asked, gesturing around the dining cabin. "Great. I'll be in the engine room."

He hurried out before Coulson could say anything. Coulson looked around at his small band of potential aerial fighters. "Darcy, Natasha, Doctor Foster, I need you to load the incendiaries. Doctor Odinson, can you work out how to use the flame cannons and teach Clint in under ten minutes? His aim is probably better than any of the rest of us, but you know this kind of weaponry."

"I can," Odinson said.

"I like this plan, boss," Clint said, giving him a lazy salute. "Burning his ship might be almost as fun as putting an arrow in his eye."

Darcy wrinkled her nose. "If I'd known this ship had so many ways to make big fires right under the highly flammable bags of gas, I wouldn't be here."

Natasha patted her arm. "If the ship explodes, it will be a fast death."

"That's really not as comforting as you think it is."

Coulson led the way to the bridge, where Odinson immediately found the board that controlled the flame throwers and beckoned for Clint to sit down in front of it. He left them to their quiet discussion of jets and directionality and went to stand beside Rogers at the wheel. The small bridge felt much more crowded with the occupant.

Rain sheeted across the windows and Coulson could barely see Laufeyson's dirigible ahead of them through the murk. The rumble of thunder was more audible here, away from the engines. The deck suddenly shifted under his feet and he staggered, feeling strangely heavier than he had a moment before.

"We're climbing fast," Rogers said. "Stark's ship looks like a whale, but it moves fast."

"What's your plan?" Coulson asked.

"We'll try to come in above Laufeyson's ship," Rogers said. "It's the only way to use the incendiaries. In this weather, I don't know how effective they'll be, but we have to take the chance. His envelope will stop him using his death ray gun or his flame throwers if we're above him."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"We come around and try for a broadside with our cannons, if we can get on his port side."

"If we can't?"

"He'll hit us with his death ray and we'll find out whether a wooden hull is enough to protect us from it."

The ship continued climbing, the subtle pressure against Coulson's body a constant reminder of the sharpness of their rise. Laufeyson's ship rose, too, but after a few minutes, it became clear that Stark's ship had a slight edge on him. They were beating it.

The air grew chilly around them and wind buffeted them so hard, Rogers had to hang onto the wheel with all his strength to keep them flying straight. How Laufeyson's smaller ship wasn't being thrown around like a leaf in the wind was beyond Coulson, but the small black craft stayed on course as it grew larger in their rain-swept window.

A crack of thunder made Coulson jump, it was so loud, and then lightning blinded him for a moment. When his eyes cleared and stopped watering, a deep frown creased Rogers forehead.

"If this was an RAF ship, we'd have to put her down," Rogers said. "It's too risky. If the lightning causes a spark inside the envelop, we'll go up like a Catherine wheel."

"If we give up now, Laufeyson will drag half of Europe into a war," Coulson said. "And he'll get rich on every drop of blood."

"That's why I haven't grounded us yet," Rogers said.

They flew on through the storm, even though the gondola creaked alarmingly around them and Rogers visibly struggled to keep her flying straight. Behind him, Coulson could hear Clint and Odinson talking quietly, discussing how the flame throwers should be used. Every now and again, he caught the sound of metal clunking and voices chattering--loading the bombs--but he couldn't look away from the window. Closer and closer, they began to catch Laufeyson's dirigible. It blended against the grey clouds so thoroughly, it was probably invisible to anyone watching from the ground. With its silent engine, it would be as invisible and undetectable in this weather as it was at night. Any government would pay a premium for a vessel like it, especially if it was armed with one of those death ray guns.

"Another couple of minutes," Rogers muttered. He flipped a button on the control board. "Stark, we're almost in position. Prepare to drop the bombs."

Stark's voice floated through a grille in the ceiling. "Little busy here. We're pushing the engines more than I designed for."

"Do I have a release lever up here?"

"I wouldn't recommend letting go of that wheel," Stark said. "And you'll need both hands to drop the bombs."

"I'll do it," Odinson said, moving closer. "Tell me which lever is required."

Rogers twisted slightly to look at Odinson. "Are you sure? He's your brother."

"You are aiming to disable only, not destroy?"

"Just trying to force him down to the ground," Rogers said.

"Then I can do it."

Rogers considered it for a moment, before nodding. "Stark, which lever?"

"Top right of the panel, should be painted bright red."

"I have it," Odinson said. He reached out and rested his hand lightly on the lever Stark had described. "I await your command."

Rogers nodded and frowned out of the window again. Coulson's palms were sweating and he clenched his fists, trying to force his breathing to ease and slow. If they mistimed this, they could destroy Laufeyson's ship and kill everyone onboard, which would be no better than letting him disappear with high-ranking foreign officials. Worse, perhaps, because they would have killed the ministers and there would be no hope of a daring rescue to salvage Britain's reputation.

Thunder crashed outside. In the relative silence after, Rogers's voice sounded unnaturally loud as he said, "Now."

Thor hauled on the lever and the deck vibrated under Coulson's feet as mechanisms shifted and groaned, and the bomb hatches opened underneath. He turned to the nearest window, peering down in an effort to see them fall in the dim light. He couldn't see much, but he did see the flashes as they glanced off the hard frame of the dirigible's envelope and slid down its side. To his relief, it didn't catch fire immediately.

"Again?" Odinson asked.

Rogers shook his head. "We'll come about and hit them with a broadside from the flame cannons on their port side."

Coming about was harder than he made it sound, and Laufeyson seemed to anticipate the plan. Dropping some height gained them some speed, which bled off as they made a tighter turn than Coulson would have imagined the ship could manage. Except Laufeyson's ship twisted in midair, turning as though the wind was little more than a breeze instead of a scream gale trying to knock them from the sky, and presented its starboard side to them--with the dark barrel of its death ray gun trained on them.

Rogers didn't blink. He kept the ship on course, pushing forward with all speed and hanging onto the wheel with grim determination. Out of the corner of his eye, Coulson saw Clint's jaw set as he stared out of the window and twisted a dial to aim the flame cannons. At a signal Coulson didn't catch, Clint slammed a lever forward and there was a loud hiss as a gout of flam ballooned towards Laufeyson's ship. 

A moment later, blue lightning crackled over every surface and Coulson screamed, every nerve on fire. His vision went white and he fell to the deck without any knowledge of falling, as pain consumed every part of his soul and left him helpless.

***

Awareness returned slowly, with a deep ache in every muscle and a foul taste in his mouth. The deck tilted under Coulson's body and he began to slide, wooden planks scraping his cheek as he scrabbled for a handhold. He slammed into a wall and gasped at the sharp pain. His arms flopped uselessly when he tried to push himself up and it was a struggle even to lift his head.

Coulson's vision blurred, but he squinted and made out the shape of Clint slumped in his chair and Odinson curled in a corner. Rogers was on his knees, holding into the wheel with one hand, but it seemed to be taking all his strength to maintain that stance. The deck tilted more, and Coulson felt himself being pressed against the wall.

They were losing altitude, dropping faster than they could possibly survive. Clouds streamed past outside the windows, which were covered with a tracery of fine cracks.

Laufeyson's death ray, it had to have been. The wood of the gondola must have given enough protection to keep them from dying, but it had damaged the ship and the engines were silent.

With an effort that made his stomach lurch, Coulson forced his arms to work and he clumsily pulled himself upright, clinging to the wall for balance as his legs shook and the ship lurched sharply to the left. He pushed away and staggered across the bridge to the wheel in a motion that was more of a semi-controlled fall than a run. It was enough to get him there, and he held onto the wheel even though he couldn't feel it against his hands.

Rogers looked up at him and he seemed to understand without needing words. While Coulson clung to the wheel, holding it steady, Rogers reached out and pushed on a lever. Slowly, the ship slowed its sharp dive and the deck's sharp tilt became less severe.

"I can't keep her in the air," Rogers said. "It feels like the gas bags have been punctured and we can't get up there to patch them like this. I can try to make it a controlled crash and avoid hitting anything populated."

Coulson nodded his understanding. It was a small chance, but they had to take it. Even if they didn't die in a controlled crash, any sparks would ignite the escaping gas and they'd become a massive fireball.

The next couple of minutes were a blur of trying to hold onto the wheel while Rogers worked switches and levers and muttered under his breath. The ship lurched and groaned, the deck tilting alarmingly at times, and Coulson tried not to look out of the window and see the ground rushing towards them. He heard a muffled grunt behind him, one he recognised too well, but he couldn't spare enough attention to look round at Clint. He was too busy fighting gravity, trying to save them both.

And then it was all too late, gravity won, and they crashed into a stand of trees with an earsplitting crunch.

***

Everything hurt.

Smoke filled his nose, his mouth.

Unconsciousness dragged at him, clinging to him with sticky hands and tempting promises of rest, but Coulson forced his eyes open anyway.

He coughed.

Somewhere nearby, he heard someone else cough, and then he heard cursing. Two voices, one heartbreakingly familiar and the other new, muttering words he couldn't understand. Had the crash broken something in his head?

No, the words were in another language. Odinson.

A shape loomed over him and Coulson tried to push himself up, but this time, he really didn't have the strength. It didn't matter--the shape bent and he felt hands under his arms, and then he was being dragged.

He lost track of time.

The next thing he was aware of was water falling on his face. Rain. He was outside, lying on something wet with the scent of leaf mould thick in his nose. Someone shook his shoulder.

"Phil." Clint's voice. Worried. "Come on, wake up. We've got to get further away."

Coulson forced his eyes open and immediately closed them as a flash of lightning blinded him.

Wait. No. It was blue, brilliant bright blue. The wrong colour for lightning. "What's happening?"

"Laufeyson's ship crashed a couple of hundred feet away." Clint sounded smug. "I kind of...did that. As we went down. Turns out, Stark had a harpoon...thing. Not sure what I hit, but it did the job."

"I didn't even notice."

"You were busy. Thanks for making sure we didn't die, but you need to open your eyes and stand up now, because Stark looks terrified and that's making me scared."

It felt like his eyelids were weighed down with lead, but Coulson got them open and found Clint bending over him, blood smeared over his chin and worry creasing his brow. With clumsy hands, Coulson reached up and tried to smooth away the frown with his thumb. He poked Clint in the eye instead, and Clint flinched.

"Ow," Clint said, but he caught Coulson's shaking hand and pressed it against his jaw, so the tips of Coulson's fingers rested just over his pulse. "I guess now I know how you felt after Crystal Palace. Sorry."

"Don't be," Coulson said. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know." Clint glanced over his shoulder, and the frown deepened. "But if you don't get moving, our deaths will be your fault. Come on, I just need you to help me a bit. Odinson got you this far, but he ran off to find Laufeyson, and I can't carry you like he did."

Coulson frowned. Something wasn't right. Clint had worked hard to get his strength back, to build up the thick muscles in his arms and shoulders, and he should be strong enough for anything.

Somewhere in the distance, Coulson could hear the sound of fighting. Closer, there were muffled shouts and low, metallic groans. Stark's voice rose out of the din, but Coulson couldn't make out what he was saying.

Except Clint's face paled even more, and he bent to pull at Coulson's shoulder. "Come on, sir. I'm not going anywhere without you, and we're too close to the blast-radius. You don't want to die with that on your conscience, do you?"

It was an awful joke, not funny at all, but Coulson felt himself smiling anyway, and then Clint's lips curled into that familiar crooked grin he loved and that was it. That was the motivation he needed to force his limbs to move. Clint's smile and the warmth and love in his eyes were enough to make Coulson move mountains, defy every social convention, and risk jail to be with him. What was a little standing in the face of all that?

With Clint's help, he managed to stand. Clint pulled Coulson's arm across his shoulder and wrapped an arm around Coulson's waist, and they set out at a stumbling run, trying to put as much distance between them and the broken dirigibles as they could. Ahead, Coulson could see Stark running in front of him, with Darcy, Pepper, and Jane holding each other up in a staggering trot a few feet before him. There was no sign of Natasha, Rogers, or Odinson.

After a few paces, Coulson became aware that Clint was making pained sounds with every step. There was no time to stop, but Coulson craned his neck and saw that Clint's far arm hung at his side and his shoulder looked oddly hunched.

Clint must have caught him looking, because he tightened his good arm around Coulson's waist and muttered, "It's nothing."

Coulson opened his mouth to respond, but a massive concussion split the air and sent them both flying forward off their feet. A wave of heat washed over them where they lay on the ground, and Coulson closed his eyes and hoped.

If this was the end, at least he would die in Clint's arms, but he really, really wasn't ready to die yet. They had a whole life they needed to live together.

# 

Chapter Fourteen

_London, November 6, 1908_

"You don't like making my life easy, do you?" Fury said.

Coulson shrugged, noncommittal. At this hour, the dining room in Chester's was thronging with club members enjoying an early supper before a show or a night at the card tables. A spicy lamb curry was chasing away the autumn chill with every bite. There was a smell of snow in the air outside, and Coulson wouldn't be surprised if there were a few flakes floating about by the time he went home.

Fury glowered across the table at him. "You're damned lucky Rogers has enough brains to think up a good excuse for what you and your valet were doing in the wreckage of those dirigibles. Keeping your name out of the reports hasn't been easy."

"We weren't in the wreckage," Coulson said. "We were adjacent to the wreckage."

"Close enough to get half the clothes burned off your backs."

"We were slightly singed. Maybe a little charred around the edges."

"How are those burns, by the way?"

Coulson shrugged. "Doctor Banner's ointment worked wonders. It barely hurts now."

"And Barton's arm?"

"Getting stronger every day," Coulson said. "He'll be able to draw a bow again soon. Apparently it's not the first time he's dislocated his shoulder."

Fury grunted. "I suppose your injuries weren't as bad as Crystal Palace."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"I don't call burns, dislocations, and a concussion a good outcome."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "Clint barely had a headache."

"I was talking about your headache." Fury pointed with his fork. "You scared me for a while there, Phil."

"I was a little worried, myself," Coulson said. "When the dirigibles blew up...I don't mind admitting, I thought that was it."

Fury nodded, looking grave. "You were lucky to get out alive. Has Odinson admitted his brother is dead, yet?"

Coulson sighed. "Without a body, it's difficult to accept. The remains your men found in the wreckage couldn't have been Laufeyson's, they were too short, so it's hard to believe he's really gone."

"At least his inventions were destroyed with him," Fury said. "From your reports, I can't decide whether the gun or the mind-control stick were more dangerous."

Lying to Fury didn't come easily any more, but Coulson forced his face to stay blank as he nodded. "They're much too dangerous to be sold to the highest bidder."

Fury didn't seem to notice that Coulson hadn't actually confirmed the devices were destroyed. Odinson's secret was one he would keep to his grave, as long as Odinson kept his promise and the devices stayed hidden forever. Coulson nodded. "At least Laufeyson didn't actually cause an international incident. Foreign officials are safe, no contracts were signed, and everything can go back to the way it was before he put his nose where it didn't belong."

"And the new commissioner commended you, I heard," Coulson said, allowing a small smile to escape. "Well done."

Fury scowled. "Politics. He still wants to know the identity of the masked vigilante, you know. He knows your fingers were in this somewhere."

"Perhaps it will help if the masked vigilante goes dormant for a while," Coulson said.

One eyebrow rose. "You're giving it up?"

"I'm taking a holiday," Coulson said. "My father left me a hunting lodge in Scotland, and I've never used it. I thought I'd do some fishing. Shooting at some deer might be good for Barton's shoulder. We'll probably be gone until Christmas."

If there was an eyebrow under the scar tissue around Fury's missing eye, Coulson was sure it would have lifted, too. "You're taking a holiday? In all the years I've known you, I've never seen you take a holiday. You didn't even take a European tour when you were younger."

"I went to Africa," Coulson said, in mild protest.

"You went to fight in Africa. It's not the same." Fury put his fork down on his mostly-cleared plate. "Is this something I should worry about? Have you got a lead on a case you haven't told me about?"

"It's nothing to do with my night work." Coulson allowed himself a small smile at the euphemism. "Not in the way you suspect, anyway. It's just been a long year and I'm tired, that's all. If I stay here, even if I try not to get involved, I'll find a new problem I should be looking into every time I step outside my door or open a paper. Admit it, you've already got a couple of things you want me to attend to, and you've been saving them up until I'm back to full strength."

Fury's guilty wince said everything.

"I--" Coulson took a deep breath and met Fury's eye steadily. " _We_ need a break for a while. We won't be gone forever, just for a few weeks, but it's important."

There was a long, tense silence, before Fury finally blew out a deep sigh. "Don't tell me any details, I still don't want to have to arrest you, but I understand. Things can wait until you're back."

"Or you could ask Captain Rogers to look into them," Coulson said. "He's a good detective."

"He won't be any good to me until Barnes gets a new arm," Fury said. "Rogers and Barnes...they're a package deal, a bit like you and Barton. Maybe worse, because those two have been living in each other's pockets since they were children. I don't know what happened in Lady Carter's house, and I probably don't want to know. I do want to know how the hell I'm supposed to find him a new metal arm when the old one was built in Russia and we've never figured out how it even works."

"I know someone who might enjoy the challenge," Coulson said.

Fury glowered again. "Stark. He still expects someone to pay for the dirigible you wrecked."

"Laufeyson wrecked it."

"You were the one who commandeered it."

"I asked Stark to provide transport to help me retrieve his property. Subsequent events were outside my control."

"I'll tell him that the next time he breaks into my office to yell at me."

"I'll talk to Pepper," Coulson said. "She can usually calm him down."

"She's worse than him," Fury said. "He only shouts. She sends letters and uses the kind of legal language that makes my superiors sit up and listen. So far, I've been able to intercept them, but she'll sneak something to them eventually."

"So distract him," Coulson said. "Stark likes a challenge and building a man a fully-functional new arm will be certainly be that. Just the chance to take apart the old one to find out how it works will probably keep him occupied for a few weeks. By the time he finishes, he'll have forgotten all about the dirigible." He considered for a moment. "Or he'll have an entirely new plan for one and he won't care about his old, out-dated, wrecked one. I'll talk to Pepper and make her see reason."

Fury was quiet for a while, before he said, "You're really sure about taking a holiday?"

"I'm sure."

"If you're not back by Christmas, I'll send a search party."

Coulson smiled. "I'd expect nothing less."

***

The flat was quiet when Coulson got home, and only one light still shone in the hallway, turned down low. He hung up his coat and hat, unconcerned. He knew where Clint would be.

Golden light filled the kitchen, from the fire in the hearth and the lamps behind Clint's worn wingback chair in the corner. Warmth and the scent of fresh baking put a smile on Coulson's face and chased away the chill from outside. He'd been right about the snow; flakes were already settling when he climbed out of the horse-drawn cab. It would melt fast, this early in the season, but there would be a enough to turn the dawn into a sparkling wonderland before the sun chased it away.

Clint sat in his chair, a small basket of mending at his feet. He looked up from the sock he was darning when Coulson entered the kitchen, and a slow smile appeared. No matter how many times Coulson saw that smile, he would never get tired of it.

It was even more effective than the fire at chasing away chills and putting a warm glow in the pit of Coulson's belly.

"Hi," Clint said quietly. "How did it go?"

Coulson shrugged and leaned against the door-frame. "He complained about Stark a lot, but he's not going to send anyone to drag us home unless there's a world-ending crisis."

"You're still sure about going away?"

"That's the second time I've been asked that tonight." Coulson pushed away from the door and crossed the room in a few short strides. He stopped in front of Clint's chair, leaned down to rest his hands on the chair arms, and caught Clint's lips in a slow, sweet kiss. When he lifted his head, he smiled. "I'm still sure I want to spend six weeks alone with you, where nobody gives a damn about what we're doing or who we are."

Clint's eyes were slightly unfocused for a moment, before they sharpened and he grinned. "If we get to do a lot of that, I could get used to this holiday thing."

"I think I can promise we'll do a lot of that."

"Good." Clint's gaze flickered to the side, not quite meeting Coulson's eyes. "I've missed you."

"I've been right here," Coulson said, frowning.

Clint's hand was warm when he reached up and cupped Coulson's jaw. "We've been living in the same flat, but neither of us have really been here, have we? I'm bad at talking about feelings and shit, and even I know we need some time. My brain got scrambled and your head got broken--"

"It wasn't broken."

"Dented, then." Clint rolled his eyes, but his thumb rubbed over Coulson's lower lip gently. "Point is, we haven't been at our best and we're new at this couple thing--don't shake your head like that--so we don't always get it right and we don't know what we're doing. You keep acting like I might disappear or shatter if you say the wrong thing, and I've missed you."

"You have nightmares," Coulson said. "I worry."

Clint's smile was soft and sad. "I know. And it's nice to have someone worry about me, because people don't normally, but you don't have to be so careful. I'm not a doll and I won't break if you talk about what happened or need more than a cuddle at the end of the day."

"Natasha worries about you. She always has."

"Natasha is not the man I'm trying to sleep with," Clint said, his lips twisting in wry amusement. "She worries differently."

"Did you have tea with her?"

"I did," Clint said. "We had tea, she complained about how busy Darcy is going to be with Doctor Foster's wedding and how I'm abandoning her just when she needs someone to tell her how to make a fairy light grotto--"

"You know how to do that?"

"Circus, boss," Clint said. "I can do that."

"I would have loved to see your act."

Clint cocked his head. "Really?"

"I've seen the poster," Coulson said. "But it's difficult to imagine you in spangles with greasepaint and glitter in your hair."

A different smile appeared, one that warmed Coulson's face in a way that had nothing to do with the fire, and Clint stretched up to whisper in his ear. "I've still got the costume. I can bring it to Scotland, if you'd like."

Coulson's mouth went dry as images whirled through his head, and he couldn't find any words. They all caught in his throat and died before reaching his tongue, so he turned his head slightly and kissed Clint instead. Kissed him with all the passion and desire he'd been burying for weeks, all the longing he'd stored up while Clint was gone, and all the love he couldn't express out loud. It was deep, and sloppy, and lacked any pretence at finesse, but Clint moaned into it and pulled Coulson closer, so he must be getting it right somehow.

Coulson found himself half-kneeling on the chair, twisted at an awkward angle with one knee between Clint's thigh and the chair arm, while Clint yanked at his jacket and made frustrated sounds. The chair creaked under their weight, and Coulson made a mental note that he really needed to buy a sturdier--and larger--one some day. The thought drifted away when Clint began kissing a trail down his jaw to suck at the place just above his collar that always made Coulson shiver and groan.

He tried to protest. "We've got a train tomorrow."

But Clint didn't lift his lips away from Coulson's neck as he said, "Not until noon. We've got lots of time."

And then protests seemed ridiculous when he wanted Clint so much he thought he'd burn up with need before they could get to the bedroom. He pulled back, stood up, and offered Clint his hand. Clint only grinned and waggled his eyebrows so ridiculously, Coulson couldn't hold in his laughter. It should have broken the mood, but laughing was one of the things he did better when Clint was around, and he'd grown used to the idea that sex and laughter were impossible to separate sometimes.

He grabbed Clint's hand and pulled him to his feet, and Clint backed him up against a wall to kiss him again because this was what they did. The kitchen was where they had half their important moments, it was where they'd had some of their best sex, and as Coulson fumbled to unfasten Clint's belt and Clint unbuttoned his shirt, all he could think was...yes. 

Yes, this was what they needed.

Yes, it was time.

Yes, he'd missed this as much as Clint had, and they'd waited for too long.

He shrugged out of his shirt and jacket and helped Clint to strip. They got distracted by freshly revealed skin, hands wandering and touching intimately because they could. His own belt refused to cooperate until Clint unfastened it, and then his shoes were in the way and Clint sent him such incredible looks when he was fixing the mess that Coulson had to stare up at the ceiling or it would all have been over too fast.

Bare skin on bare skin was almost too much again, but Coulson buried his face in Clint's shoulder and turned them so Clint's back was against the wall. Clint hooked one leg around Coulson's waist without needing any encouragement, and then they were rocking and heaving together, searching for that perfect angle of friction. His breath was coming in harsh pants as he ground against Clint and the wordless moan Clint made told him he'd got it right. He pressed closer, wrapped his hand around their cocks, and Clint shuddered and groaned. Coulson kissed him, sucked on his tongue, and felt the moment when Clint's orgasm hit and he began shaking against him. The sudden heat pulsing between them was more than enough to send Coulson over the edge to join him, and time stretched out into a thin stream of unthinking sensation.

Coulson became aware of himself again slowly. He was slumped against Clint, held up by the wall, and Clint was making soft, contented sounds in his ear.

"Bed," Coulson said after a minute. His voice sounded raw.

Clint sighed. "Bed."

Coulson's knees shook slightly when he straightened, and he couldn't suppress a smile when Clint wobbled slightly as though he was drunk. They gathered up abandoned clothes and Clint took his hand as they stumbled down the corridor to the bedroom, where the clothes were draped unceremoniously over a chair and they fell into the bed.

As he wrapped his arms around Clint, Coulson smiled and pressed a kiss just below Clint's ear. "I think I can promise a lot more of that while we're away, too."

"Fucking against a wall?" Clint snorted. "I'm hoping there's a bed, too."

"A couple of beds. And at least one chaise longue and a large Chesterfield, if I remember correctly."

"So many possibilities."

"Unless you'd rather really hunt and fish for six weeks."

"I think we can fit in both." There was warm amusement in Clint's voice. "I'll add that costume to my case in the morning."

Coulson didn't answer out loud, but he felt the long kiss they shared said everything that needed to be said, for now. Everything else could be said when there was no one around for fifty miles, and it probably would be. For the first time, they could stop pretending to be master and valet and just be who they were.

Lovers. Friends. Together through the best times and the worst times. And death wouldn't part them for a very long time, if Coulson had anything to say about it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustration to Stone of the North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559277) by [johanirae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/pseuds/johanirae), [Selenay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay)




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